


Roses Are Falling

by GayNutbuster



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Weird Roommates to Lovers, F/M, Fugg this is hard, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Hiatus, Horror, Just a warning if you wanted some serious asspounding from Michael, Kind of cozycore-ish, M/M, Murder, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Sorry but this is actually really tame compared to most fics with Michael, Stalking, because it's daddy Myers, but of course there will be violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayNutbuster/pseuds/GayNutbuster
Summary: Moving to Haddonfield was not an easy thing to do. Leaving the city, which you have lived in your whole life, was both scary and exciting. But you were determined and motivated to live alone, in a cheap house you call home, the Myers House.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 93
Kudos: 306





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first ever published work after so many years, so I'm very sorry if there are spelling and grammar errors, I will edit them out if I find any. Also, thank you to a friend of mine for beta-reading this!!

Walking around the town of Haddonfield wasn't as bad as you thought. The air was cold, but fresh, the warm colors of autumn was so relaxing and not at all you felt fearful. You've heard rumors, no- Real stories of the very house you live in, the Myers house. You've been told of the name and its stories many times. The real-estate agent and the people of Haddonfield warned you of the Boogeyman, the Shape; Michael Myers. But someone as broke as you, just couldn't pass up the cheap price. You feel like a stupid white main character in a movie, but what else can you do?

Feeling a bit cold, you stuffed one of your hands in your jacket's pockets as you trudge along on your way home, eager to get some warmth and food in your stomach.

You pushed the door with your shoulder, hands full of groceries. You thought of making mushroom soup for the night, simple but warm and nice. A coworker of yours suggested the recipe, it was very nice of him. He told you mushrooms were plentiful in autumn due to the cool and moist weather. A fun tidbit.

The sound of chopping filled the silent atmosphere, save for the rustling wind outside. You do admit the house was creepy. You sometimes feel like you weren't alone, like you were being watched. You blamed it on onlookers that have warned you, you sometimes see them with looks in their eyes.

_You're damned. The Shape will come and get you. Are you out of your mind?_

Those were the words they wanted to tell, but they know that you know. So, they don't bother. You did this to yourself.

"Ack, shit." You hissed at the cut on your finger, it wasn't bad fortunately. You cursed yourself for thinking too hard while handling a knife. The cut was small, therefore it stung more. You ran the water in the sink and waited for the blood to stop flowing. Blood mushroom soup for tonight. Yum.

Huddled in your bed's warm covers that are fresh from the laundry, you felt content and happy. You were full and warm and you have a roof over your head, that's all that matters to you. It was hard getting out of the city and moving to Haddonfield, the cost and friends you had to say goodbye to, it really wasn't easy. But, you were tired. Tired of the city's oppressive smoke, loudness and demanding rent. Now, you're here. Content, but a little lonely. As you had lived in the city your whole life, you hadn't seen your friend's faces in a while and you've missed their welcoming presence. You've phoned them about your arrival and adjustments, and they were happy for you, and teased you for being mature and lucky for having a house in this age. 

You smiled thinking about them, and the pair of eyes watching you widened in surprise. Warmth bloomed throughout his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Having settled on your new home not too long ago means you still had boxes scattered everywhere. You frequently stumble over them when still groggy from sleep. The house was huge and your things weren't enough to decorate the whole place, which gave you the habit on staring at couches and tables when passing by at a local furniture shop. You planned on visiting there soon, but having little money after pouring in on the house, you pushed the date further. Maybe after a paycheck.

After arriving into town, you immediately looked for a job. You landed on one as an editor. It was alright, it didn't pay as much as in the city but your situation wasn't demanding as before.

"Hey, Y/N. Looks like you're deep in thought." You looked up from your computer, it was your coworker, Victor. He was slightly older than you and the first to talk to you in the town without cursing you to hell for your purchase of the house. He did tell you to be careful and stay alert, but it wasn't insistent as the other townsfolk.

"Yeah, I was just thinking about getting some furniture. You know, pretty up the place. Maybe the town would shut up about my "inevitable death"." you scrunched up your face at him and made a slashing-knife motion. He laughs at it.

"It would be a welcoming gift for the people, or for Myers." he joked. You rolled your eyes and continued typing away on your work.

"You guys have to drop the Myers thing, man. It's been like, what- 5 years? After what happened?"

"Well, yeah- But, there are still _things_ happening every year. Disappearances and sightings."

You kicked off your office chair and wheeled to the papers you needed to rundown. Well, he is right. Before coming into town, there were disappearances of two people. Which only fueled the fire the townsfolk's fear. You were admittedly scared but you've been here for a while and nothing too strange has happened. So far.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Want to get lunch together?" you changed the topic, tired hearing the same thing over and over again from people.

"Sure. I'll just have to print these out and we can go."

You don't have a car, but walking home wasn't bad. Your place and work weren't that far and it was good for your legs, so you can't really complain. Grabbing one of the straps of your backpack, you allowed yourself to relax at the sound of the town. There were no cars driving by and everyone was inside their homes, it felt so different in the city's constant blaring. You smiled softly and listened to the wind and the frequent sound of crunching of dead leaves. Out of the blue though, you slightly notice very quiet footsteps. 'Well, I can't be the only one in town walking around' you thought.

You turned around and saw no one. You scanned the area to really find the source of the footsteps and there was none. You tugged your backpack and continued walking, a little unnerved. 'Must be my imagination, or maybe possums, raccoons. With their human-like paws'

But then another, but bolder, sound of footsteps followed. You could rule out the distance, not too far but not too near. Cautious distance. You feel your hands get clammy but you continued to walk, albeit faster. 'It's nothing. The townsfolk has gotten in my head.'

The stranger has stopped following, but you didn't stop power-walking towards home.

His figure becomes frigid and he felt... Nervous. He clutches at his chest, where his heart resides. It felt weird. Heavy, like drowning. He forced his frozen legs to back away to the red and orange foliage, away from you.

By the time you were home, you were sweaty and still nervous. You closed the door loudly, the sound echoing throughout the empty home. 'I'm home. I'm safe. Nobody is here.'

You raked your fingers through your sweaty hair, putting away the wisps away from your face. Your nervous chuckle fills the silence. 'The townsfolk sure are good at intimidating.'

You pushed yourself off the door and hanged the house keys on a hook. A warm bath would be nice.

The stranger was outside, peering dangerously near. His breathing was unusually erratic, he was extremely confused on what was happening to him. What was unusual about you? He watched you always, ever since you've arrived in this place. You looked like everyone else and acted like everyone else. He couldn't understand. His fingers grazed over the cool blade hidden in his coveralls, like asking a question to it. No, it wasn't right. But why? He has killed many, but the thought of hurting the person in his home right now, was... Distressing. His fingers lifted the window of the back of your house and set foot. He was going to find out what you were doing to him. No matter what.

You slipped off your shirt from your sticky back with a disgusted frown. You hurried, kicking off your pants and just eager to wash off the grime of the day. Only stepping in, the water illicit a contented sigh from you and now whole body deep in warm water, you feel your muscles loosen and you softly smiled. You closed your eyes and basked in the warmth.

A man of his size giving away the smallest of sounds was one of his talents. He was walking in your living room and looked around at the changes that you did. It was simple, but nice. He picked up a nicked mug off the countertop and smelled the remnants inside. Cheap coffee. He poured the contents down the sink, unimpressed. It's not like he had the luxury to get good food but he can't stand bitter food or bitter drinks. He'd rather starve. Ever since you moved though, he'd sneak in sometimes and snack on some food you made. Moving from the kitchen and back to the living room, he heard the sound of bathwater running. He stood there, frozen. He'd always known you were here but he was very near now. His mind was at war if he should go upstairs, being a danger to you and him. Instinctively, he grabbed out his knife and start making his way upstairs. Maybe if he'd get rid of you, the strange feeling would go away.

You splashed some water on your face and scrubbed at your hair, when suddenly you hear the floorboards creaking. Immediately, panic fills your mind, someone was inside your home. You sit there frozen in your bathtub, you don't know what to do. The intruder was probably near the doorframe and if you'd run out, they'll have you. You wait, dread spiking every step you hear.

Michael was ready, or he felt he was ready. He was going to rid of the stranger in his house. He blamed the feeling that he was territorial of his home and you've invaded it. His hand twisted the doorknob and pushed, he saw you sitting there, like a deer in headlights. He walks closer.

The first thing you saw was the mask and the second, that awfully huge knife. Panic takes control of your body, and you jump out of the tub. You run for the exit, but you feel strong hands grip the sides of your torso, your ribs hurt from the pressure. You thrash under his hold as he pins you on the nearest wall. The harsh slam completely stuns you, but not your thoughts. Every townsfolk's faces flood your mind. They were right. The people who warned you were right. You were going to die like every other person this man has killed. Michael Myers. He was going to take your life.

The knife in his hand was raised and ready to strike, blood and flesh meets the sharp steel. You bleed like an animal.

But none came. There was no blood, not even a single scratch. Save for the blooming bruises on your ribs, you were fine. The familiar knife, that has taken so many lives, had felt heavy. No, it wasn't the knife. But his hand. He was hesitant. He looked at your contorted face and identified pain, he feels a lump on his throat as he watches you groan and fight weakly. He drops you on the floor and steps back. He grips the sides of his head, his mind was at war.

Pain blossomed throughout your entire body, you groan as you come back to your senses. Then, animalistic fear totally wakes you up. You were alive. You looked at the man in front of you, he looked... Broken. You could hear muffled heavy breathing under his mask, you were at awe. You didn't move an inch, fearing whatever you will do would set him back to his murderous nature. You can't run, you shouldn't. But what will you do?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh. Thank you for the 26 kudos, friends! I appreciate it a lot ;A;

You were alone now and most importantly, alive. You were still processing what happened. The gleaming knife, your aching bones and his broken breathing. It was all too much. Michael wasn't dead and you've got the bruises to prove it. Well, you weren't trying to prove shit to anyone, unless you want to start hellfire. 

What happened in the bathroom was you stared at him with a pained and fearful look. Ready to bolt if he ever takes a step forward. After maybe minutes or maybe even half an hour, he slowly regained himself and simply walked away, as if nothing had happened. You could hear one of the windows being slammed shut as he left. 

They've always blamed the disappearances of the victims being under the influences of alcohol and have lost their way in the woods and starved to death or eaten alive by wild animals. But of course, that's bullshit. You couldn't think of anything else but that man, of course he was the one who killed them. A man of that caliber, he could destroy your remains until it is no longer distinguishable. He will come back. You've concluded, you have invaded his home and he will take it back. 

Your ribs ached every time you breathe and the back of your head had a swollen bump, you've nursed your bump with ice but nothing else. You don't know if to stay at home and be in danger of him entering again in your state. Or go to work and suffer through the day and only to dread your way back home. It was a lose/lose situation. Calling the sheriff would either bring attention from the people or they'll plainly dismiss you because they too don't want to start a panic. They've been doing that for five years.

'Checking in a motel would keep me safe...' you ponder. 'Fuck, I should go back to the city.'

That's it, you could do that. Run away, while you still can. You run up to your room and start packing. Putting in everything that was important to you in that small luggage. Photos, clothes, money and documents. 

Hauling the luggage, you rush down to find the telephone book in the living room. You've seen the raggedy inn before entering Haddonfield, it was the farthest from here but still so far away from the city. It was enough. You flipped through the pages until you found the name of the motel. 'That's it.' you breathed out.

You immediately phoned down the numbers and waited for someone to pick up. Impatient fear spiking with each ring out of the speaker. 

"Good afternoon, this is the Samson's Motel. How may I help you?" a man answered.   
You calmed your breathing before speaking, afraid your voice would break. 

"Hello. Is there a room available, especially in ground level and nearest to the road?" you spoke. You mentally commend yourself that you didn't stutter.   
"Let me check... Yes, we have a room available based on your specifications."

  
"I'll arrive around 2:00 PM. Thank you." you ended the call before he could reply. With your hands shaking, you wheeled your luggage to the main door.

  
Your hand paused at turning the doorknob. You remember him again. His slight shaking frame and erratic breathing. Although you were dizzy by being slammed to the wall, you could make out his eyes. One was milky-white and his other was blue and glossed over. You saw internal conflict in that one eye. A bewildered madman.

  
A shaky chuckle slips pass your lips. 'What am I even thinking about? Pitying a murderer? I'm out of my mind'

  
With those thoughts pushed away, you opened the door and started running to the center of town to pick up a cab.

  
He watches you run away and his chest felt heavier than ever before. And he wondered why. That was it then. You escaped from Michael's grasp and he has his house back. He raised open the same window he went in last night and just stood there in the silent room. Even though you have left his home, he was angry. No, not angry. But it felt the same as if one of his victims had escaped. Annoyed? Still not right. 

  
'Why?'

  
Before making his way to the living room and finding the phone-book, he had checked the pantry. He'd always help himself ever since you've arrived. He ate like garbage before, he didn't mind eating scraps, but herb bread and peach juice was preferable. 

  
A jar of preserved plums caught his eye. He had watched you make things and cook. This was one of yours, just jarred three days ago. One night, peering over the kitchen window, he had watched your expert hands slice these plums and proceeded to put them on an oven tray. The following day, from far away he watched, you placed the tray under the sun. Right now, the preserves jar was in his hand and you hadn't gotten the chance on tasting it. 

  
He unscrewed the lid and took a bite out of one of the plums. It was sour, but sweet. It was nice, like sour candy. 

It wasn't premeditated, but he left the house, to go after you. 

You had picked up a can of soda to cool your bruised ribs before entering your room. It was overpriced. The sun has set long ago and night has fallen. You looked out of the window every so often in fear of Michael had followed you. But the logical part of you had rebutted that you were far away, five hours of walking distance and there's no way he knows where you are. What would you do if he was suddenly here? A thought muses.

  
'I'll chuck this can at him fueled by rage of it being overpriced and well, die. I guess.'  
No, that's stupid. You've gotten this far (even if the journey is short), you're not going to die a needlessly excruciating death because you pissed him off by bonking him on the head. You cracked open the can and took a sip. You scrunched up your face. 'Lukewarm. Yikes.'

  
You left the window to sit on the bed, and looked around. Depressing wallpaper, a lamp, a chair and a bathroom. Your motel room wasn't super small but it hadn't enough room to run around. Hiding under the bed? Not enough space. Hide in the bathroom? Awful idea. Swing the chair and the lamp to create an area of attack? Creative, but dumb. You'd die before any which of the furniture could hit him. If you were to jump into the bed and run out the door. He'll have you on the bed before you could step down and run. And if you were to simply jump in the bed and jump into the window and run, maybe you could live. Or hit yourself head-first and be unconscious. _At least you'd die not feeling anything_. Another thought muses.

  
'Well, I don't really want to die.'

  
A knock pulls you out of your thoughts and oppressive fear was replaced. You couldn't stand looking out of the window, could it really be him? Would he knock though? Wouldn't he just, I don't know, bust through the door? Again, a thought muses. 

  
Another knock, but heavier. Trusting your thought on that inkling. 5 hours of walking distance. There's no way he is here. Be rational. You wore back your shirt and walked towards the door. Hands mildly shaking and breath wavering, you opened the door. Your heart stops.

  
He was tired, but he made it. He had looked through each window before knocking on this door. His legs and feet ached and his undershirt was sticking on his back. He'll give you what you deserve. He slips his hand in his coveralls and touched the coolness of the item.

  
_Fight or flight? Fight or flight? Fight or flight? CHOOSE, GODDAMIT._ Your mind screams.

Your legs get heavier and heavier every step you took back away from the tall man. You couldn't see anything in those eye-holes of his mask, just the inky-black darkness of the void. Is he angry you'd escaped from a notorious killer like him? Is he going to finish the job from last night?

  
_He's getting his knife. Run!_

  
You couldn't, your legs were frozen. you feel bile from the back of your mouth. This was it then. Your eyes slammed shut and braced for the knife to plunge deep and to bleed out like a strung deer. 

  
It was cold. But dull. Pressed to your right arm. Knives weren't usually dull.  
You opened your eyes hesitantly, and they immediately widened.

  
He had thought of dropping the jar, so you could maybe snap out of it and catch the item. He doubts you could catch it in time. But if you were to receive it with your shaky state, maybe you'd drop it too. He sighs as he thought of something. He unscrewed the lid and fished out a big slice, and offered it to the shaking mess in front of him. It was like trying to tame a feral animal.

It was your plum preserves, you never got a chance on tasting it. Had he known that? Had he been watching you ever since you've arrived?

  
You finally reached out and picked the plum out of his palm. For a split second, you saw his stiff hand relax. You brought it up to your mouth and took the whole piece in. You heard him huff, like he was judging your action. The sweetness calms your nerves


	4. Chapter 4

You don't know which god you have pissed off to be in this situation. Maybe that one time you dropped your boss's mug that was gifted by his son? Haven't donated to a charity your whole life? Or maybe it's because you bought a murderer's house?

Maybe, just maybe, it's the latter. You could feel the tension in your small motel room, it was almost suffocating. You could tell he was tense, even though he looked calm in that unmoving state, sat upon on a chair that looked too small for him. Feeling your eyes upon him, he looked up to you from his tiny chair. It was weird how huge this man was, you fit perfectly in that chair.

You looked away to your lap where your preserves jar was placed. You could remember it was filled to the brim with slices, you even struggled putting them all in since you've bought too many plums. It was cheap because it was on season, so why not? You wondered, had he eaten them on his way here? Or had he thrown out the most sour ones like a picky child? Either way, it was near empty and for some reason, you were happy. You thought it was because you missed your friends. You'd give them homemade sweets sometimes as a sentiment. You'd smile a lot and tease them when you find them silently enjoying the given treat.

"So, uh-" you looked at him. He was already looking back. He never looked away. You were taken aback, and internally cringed. It was, of course, rude and creepy to be stared at. But it was amplified because it's him, Michael.

"You're here" you continue. "And I think I'm alive. If not, this must be the weirdest circle of hell I am in."

He says nothing, and just stared. Though you've noticed his shoulders had slightly loosen. "I guess thanks for not killing me, or is it too early to say that?" you nervously chuckled. He looks down, as if pondering. After maybe a minute, he looks back up to you and says nothing. Not a shake or a nod either. 'Ah, fuck. I'm still not in the clear then.' you thought.

"Not much of a conversationalist, huh?" your voice cracked at the last word, you were still perturbed by the lack of an answer a question ago. 'Fuck it, I'll say it.'

"Look, man. I know you don't trust me and surprise-surprise, I don't trust you too. But if you think that I'll try to kill you or something, look at me." you motioned to yourself. He already is looking. You continued.

"And look at you!" he didn't. "You're like past 6 foot and you picked me up like I was nothing." Your bruises still hurt, but the bump on the back of your head didn't anymore.

Suddenly, he stood up. You immediately got out of the bed and distanced yourself. 'Did I piss him off? Was I too loud? Fuck-'

His strides towards you were slow, which eased you a little. He hadn't taken out of his knife, but he could still kill you in many, many ways. He stopped before your back could touch a wall. He stretched out his right hand and stilled at a respectable distance. You pieced two and two together.

"O-Oh. A handshake? S-sure." you stretched your right hand, it was shaking. It was like offering your hand to get chopped off.

Before your hand met his, he took it and faced it upwards, your palm facing the ceiling. You were scared and confused. His grip around your wrist wasn't painful but it was strong.

You were surprised what he was doing next, almost not catching the actions. Michael traced over the palm upon his hand, which looked tiny to his in comparison. He slowly spelled out a short sentence.

"D O N O T L I K E T O T A L K."

He lets go and waits for you to talk or to react, aside from gawking. He was beginning to think that you didn't catch what he wrote.

"O-Oh. I-It's alright. Do you know ASL? Or heard of it?" He'd heard of it, yes. But he didn't find it useful to his doings. He wasn't planning on talking to a victim about his day in sign as they scream bloody murder. He promptly shook his head.

"Well, me too." He almost scoffed. 'Why'd you ask in the first place?' he thought. "But, we can learn it together. If you want to." you suggested with a shrug.

Michael debated on it. It would be troublesome, but communicating in nods, shakes, tracing and writing on paper was more troubling. But why would he talk to you anyway? He wasn't even sure why he was here in the first place. So he could have a pantry to raid and a warm place to sleep every night? Not really. He had managed through winters alone in that decrepit house. So, he was altogether still confused by his recent behaviors.

He had come close so many times killing this mess in front of him without them knowing at all. Of course his first attempt was the day you've arrived, he wasn't really thrilled by the idea of being robbed of his own home. You were hauling in boxes of your things and wandered around in the house. When you've finally entered the master bedroom, he slipped inside quietly. He minded every weak wood and boxes to not gain your attention, he wanted to get rid of you fast and not chase you around town.

You were still in there by the time he reached the bedroom, unbeknownst to you the previous homeowner was behind you.

He purposely stomped on a weak floorboard to gain your attention. You quickly turned to the direction of the sound, you looked confused and surprised. Just like every victim he had killed, those would be the the last emotions you would feel. His hand crept to where his knife resides.

Then you suddenly laughed, the sound filling the house. His whole body stiffens and he was now the one who's confused. "Oh, you people of Haddonfield with your jokes." you said after catching a breathe. You then stepped towards him. Alarmed, he pulled out his knife fast.

"Whoa there, you even brought a knife with you-" you were in shock. "Now, that's some real dedication, man." you finished with an honest smile.

Your hands motioned to a 'Just a sec.' action. You walked towards a box labeled fragile, and bent down to looked for something. It wasn't like he didn't know what to do with you through this strange situation, because he does know. Kill this moron and toss the body in the woods. He'd thought of leaving your body to rot in here out of spite and let it be a huge 'Fuck you and fuck off.' to future trespassers.

Angered by how oblivious this person is, he took long strides towards you, still digging through whatever the hell you were looking for, and lifted the knife high up, really winding it. Then he strikes.

Blood coated the knife and limbs were separated, he had struck a centipede on the wall. He didn't miss, not intentionally anyway. You had "dodged" at the last second because an item had rolled away and you crawled to retrieve it.

The burst of splintering wood had caught your attention. His knife had lodged in two tight wood boards and he struggled to pull it out. Though by three strong tugs, it was free.

"Whoa, shit- Is that a centipede?" you pointed at the bottom half of the insect that laid on the floor, the upper half was engraved deep and was practically part of the house now. He didn't hear what you are saying and didn't care, it was getting ridiculous.

A small item was suddenly thrust into his hands. "I was going to give you something smaller because you remind me of trick-or-treaters, but you killed that centipede for me." you said, as he stood there and glared you down.

"Don't want to get bitten while I sleep." He inspects the item he was holding, it was a small jar of peach jam."It's homemade, if you don't like it, you can toss it out."

Before you could say another word, he stormed out of the house. His mind was raging with emotions he had lost. He was given an item, an act of kindness from anybody which he hadn't experienced throughout his damned life. He finished the jam in that same day, unashamedly straight from the jar. It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

He nodded his head, agreeing to learn ASL with you. Maybe he can keep you a while longer. He had trusted himself it was for his own benefits. A warm place and warm food. Then after the cold settles down, he can get rid of you.

"Oh, I thought you wouldn't accept but that's great." you shakily laugh. You have no idea why he wants you back in Haddonfield. You've thought that he wants his house back and for you to fuck off back to where you came from. Now, he was here and he was going in the bathroom and acting like everything is normal.

The thought of living with a serial killer isn't really fun to think about. You'd live on the rest of your days sleeping with one eye open and trying so hard not to run away. Your mind ran wild with imaginations what would life would be with this guy. Would he go back home covered in fresh blood that isn't his? Does he eat human meat? Is he some part of cult? Does he bring his cult friends in the house? You shut your eyes and buried your face on a pillow. It's all too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for the wait, I had exams. Also, I just want to say that I didn't plan to make this story to be longer but as of now, it's going to be. It was supposed to be short and sweet, but I'd decides to do a slow build and really slow burn. If that's not your thing, that's alright! There's plenty of Myers fics out there, so good luck!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! There will be graphic descriptions of violence in this chapter! Just a warning.

You didn't get enough sleep last night. I mean, who wouldn't? Sleeping soundly in the same room with Michael was just like trying to sleep in a bear's den. You woke up alive and unscathed, to your much relief. He was rigid as a board on that chair, his breathing was quiet, perhaps he was still sleeping or at least, pretending to be. Does he even sleep?

You pushed yourself off the bed and walked in the bathroom, and you winced at how cold the tiles were. You sat on the toilet's lid and clasped your hands, thinking again what you've got yourself into.

Before you could question your life's choices for the seventh time, the door violently swung open, almost pulling itself off its hinges. He stood there, unnerving as ever. You looked at him surprised by the intrusion, and slightly angered. So, he wasn't asleep.

"I-I know you've seen me... Naked. But I still would like to have some privacy. Please." 

He was wearing your oversized shirt since last night he had showered. The walk had made him sweaty and gross, so he had rummaged through your belongings for a fresh shirt. Despite being oversized, the shirt had hugged his frame tightly. Shaping his muscular chest and arms.

You walked past him and sat back on the bed. Although you have developed a small attitude, you were still careful around him, people like him are unpredictable, but especially him. 

"I don't plan on staying in this musty shithole any longer, trust me. But we have a problem." you said. "It's your mask. I could back you up and say you're excited for Halloween. Dressed up as 'Michael'. If they question your silence, I'll tell them you're just super deep in character." you crossed your arms. You almost suggested taking off the mask but something tells you that was a really bad idea. 

"Just try to loosen your posture, even just a little." you pointed at him. He slightly lessened the gap between his legs and dropped his arms to his side. He still looked so stiff, but you guessed he tried. You let out a bitter sigh.

He got strange looks from the motel, of course. He 'wore a mask' of a killer that was responsible of hundreds of deaths, so they thought his 'costume' was very insensitive. He still had his overalls on but he tied the sleeves on his waist and a shirt that looks like it's about to burst. You didn't look at them and neither at Michael, you pretended they didn't exist. Acting nervous and defensive would rouse more suspicion as you already are. You gripped your jacket closer, feeling cold from the early morning's wind.

The cab ride home was uneventful, which you were thankful of. No questions asked from the driver, though he looked like he was about to pass out even after the explanation he was wearing a 'costume'. But what you were most thankful is, you were home. Not exactly safe and sound, but you're home. With a roommate. Or perhaps he was your roommate from the very beginning. You hoped and prayed that he had never ever stepped foot in the house while you were inside before all of this. 

  
You were very wrong.

  
He had always watched, from far or to only a hands breadth away. During work, grocery runs, walks and sleep. He would grip his knife til his knuckles turned bone white, sometimes he would raise it over your sleeping figure but it never fell. He had come close so many times, but he never did it. He'd never let you see him, but he'd always make his presence known. You would feel a little suffocated or nauseous, but you'd always shake off the feeling and continue whatever you were doing. He had slept in your couch unbeknownst to you, ate from your pantry, watched you shower and undress. Had become familiar to the lyrics of the song that you kept repeating, much to his annoyance. Needless to say, he was familiar of you.

You were passed out in your bed, tired from the journey. You were tangled in your covers but sleeping soundly. Vulnerable. He was beside your bed. How many times had he stood over you like this? He couldn't think of a number, it doesn't matter. He had already decided he would get rid of you when the cold dies down.

To him you felt like a virus. You had spread throughout his system and he was sick of you. He had sunk his teeth into screaming dogs and felt nothing. Buried his knife into his helpless sister and felt nothing. But once he had his hands on you, your flesh felt like a hot kettle burning him. Among his hoard of tacky earrings and obscene letters from his victims' lovers, there stood out a pristine empty jar of peach jam with a thoroughly thumbed paper label of your name.

"That'll be 21 dollars." the bored cashier announced. You handed him the amount and grabbed the paper bag full of groceries. You hadn't felt stressed like this ever since that time you had to cram all your deadlines in one night in college. You weren't the best cook but you had bought some ingredients of a good comfort food, beef stroganoff.

  
A lovely lady who was your boss had patiently taught you the recipe, she was really beautiful and tall and toned. In the city, you had worked various jobs as a teen. You were a janitor at this furniture shop that was simple yet it was really homey, especially since she used to hum when she works on a new furniture. It reminded you of being in a cabin in the woods. You smiled at the memory.

  
Now that you were outside of the store, walking back home and at night, you felt bare. Though calming as the Halloween decorations feel, you still felt scared because the nauseating feeling of someone staring at you was back. 

  
'Could it be him?' you asked yourself. When you woke up from your nap, you told him where you were going, but you also joked that you were going to run away again.   
Your gait quickens as you suddenly heard heavy and fast footsteps coming towards you. You hugged the paper bags closer and immediately ran. Then he does too.

  
His hand had grabbed your jacket's hood, and you fall back. You had protected your groceries instead of your head, which you did purposely. You'd rather have another bruise or bump than having your box of flour explode. You opened your eyes and met his mask. 

  
It wasn't Michael.

  
Panic seizes your body and you thrashed within his hold. You screamed for help, even after your vocal chords gave out. He repeatedly knees you in the stomach and demanded for you to shut up. You didn't stop, until you felt a sharp point threatening to plunge deep in your abdomen.

"Oh, so we can negotiate after all." he whispers, his voice sounding like two rocks grinding against each other. "Just give me all of your money and we both can go on to our merry ways." he chuckles, making the knife in his hand dig through, a small patch of blood blossomed on your shirt.

"In my back pocket, to my right" you say through gritted teeth, feeling defeated. He flips you over with your arms still in his hold. He dug for your wallet and snatched it away immediately once he felt the wallet's material. The gloved hands on your arms let go. He was gone then, just like that. 

You were angry, of course. You had everything in there, your ID, cards, coupons and money. You turned around to pick up your fallen grocery, you hoped that the butter hadn't melted that bad.

  
"Hghk, ack-" 

  
The robber was raised in the air as if he was weightless. The only thing that was supporting him was an extremely tight hold on his neck. Dark blue overalls. White mask. He had followed you after all.

Michael switched out the hand that was choking, to clasping the man's mouth, the pressure slowly concaving his jaw. Not a sound was heard from the man, though he was desperately trying to scream. He was slammed into the ground, and a sickening crack filled the silence when his head meets the concrete. The unlucky bastard wasn't dead yet though, he wasn't that huge of a man but he looked resilient enough to take some strong hits.

You could feel bitter bile rise up when you realized what was happening. Michael wasn't struggling to kill the robber, but was only prolonging his inevitable death.

The killer bends on one knee and his other hand reached in for his knife. It gleamed when the moon hits the blade. The man was trying to crawl towards you, begging in gibberish through his destroyed jaw. You were frozen, could only stand and look back at his teary eyes. He was pulled back by his legs and was punished for trying to escape. He had twisted both legs at the same time, he was sobbing so hard. The knife was finally raised for a stab, it shortly met the man's abdomen deep, so deep it hit the concrete. The sound of the impact had made you jump. Yet, he wasn't done though, much to your horror. 

He slowly drags down the edge of the knife ripping through every sinew and organ in its path. The disgusting noises were loud enough to mask every other thing that made a sound. The growing pool of blood almost had reached your shoe, but you were aware enough to quickly step back. The sight was gruesome. The man's neck was broken, his jaw was crooked and almost all of the man's organs had spilled out, some were sliced through and some were in shape. He had purposely made the man lived long enough until he was finished. 

As if the disemboweled man was nothing but a piece of garbage on his way, he stepped over the body. He looms over you, your back was against the tree. 

"We... Uh-we should go." your voice was still weak from the yelling earlier, but he could hear you. You wanted to go home as soon as possible to throw up. 

"The butter is melting."

He nodded. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend @officialllyrm for beta-reading and helping me with this chapter. Couldn't have done it without their help!

You were buried in two days worth of work and was still disturbed by the gore you've seen last night, needless to say, you were stressed. You were late coming into work as well, which had amplified your boss's anger. He was too loud, he was practically heard by everyone in the building. "It was just two days. Christ." You rubbed your right eye as you cross out error after error.

A cup of coffee was placed on your desk, you looked up to see Victor. "Yeah, but he's our boss, so we gotta deal with it. He's usually not that loud though." he leans on your cubicle.

You took a sip from the warm drink, it wasn't bad. "You think he's paranoid of what happened?" he adds. 

"Whole town is." You didn't look him in the eyes. You focused back to work, reviewing the edited headline.

He had left the body there, not bothering to ditch it in the woods. You'd thought he would dispose of it somewhere, because he hadn't gone home with you together. To your immediate surprise, even after running all the way home, he was already there and another thing, he was clean. Not a single drop of blood anywhere on his body except his mask. He wore the same color of the overalls, except it looked worn-out. It made you think he has a lot of them somewhere, which was slightly comical. One must suppose have their own signature look. In the morning, you found the bloody one in the wash, it was really clean. 

"You know, I thought you were dead." Victor said, sounding too nonchalant. You almost said 'Me too.' But you crossed your arms angrily, really trying to look offended. Well, you were a bit. "Do you want me to die or what?"

"No, it's not like that. I'd just thought that Myers would finally, you know. Since you've been living in that house for nearly a month now." he plainly says.

"I don't know- Maybe he's actually dead or whatever." your voice rose. Now, you were genuinely mad. 

"Yeah. I guess a copycat could be very possible." he shrugged and ended the thought. "Well, wanna get lunch again?"

"No, I'm okay. I have to finish these." you dismissed him. You wanted him to leave already. You weren't sure if he meant well, but you were still ticked off. It's like the whole town really wants you to die. For the rest of the day, you didn't touch the mug of coffee again and bitterly worked on.

You had submitted all the files and headlines sooner than you thought, which you've decided to use the time to go to the public library. The place was empty of people besides the old librarian, she was a little odd but kindhearted, she had given you a tangerine upon seeing you.

"Am I allowed to eat it inside?" you examined the fruit resting on your palm. It gave off a sweet scent.

"Well, that's how you usually eat tangerines. I won't judge you if you eat the skin though." she remarks. 

You only nodded and walked away to the A-Section of the books. The building was relatively old, but it wasn't shoddy. Slightly dusty though. 

"American Sign Language..." you murmured repeatedly to yourself as you trace the spines of the lined books. You eventually found two books of the topic, a smile crept up to your face. Then you pursed your lips. Weirded out.

'Am I still really teaching him ASL?' you looked down at the two books, titled _American Sign Language: Alphabets and Basic Phrases_ and _American Sign Language: Everything You Need To Know About_. The proposition had felt stupid when you were still in that musty motel, but now, you were now a little confused that you felt obligated. You couldn't admit to yourself that you had felt safe despite seeing how dangerous he really is. It looked so easy for him to destroy someone in such a gruesome way, despite not requiring to do so, but at the end of the day, he had saved you. You didn't see him eat the stroganoff, but the virtually clean bowl on the sink was evident he enjoyed the meal. Unknowingly you smiled.

You pulled one sleeve of your sweater to see the time on your watch, you still had time to practice then you can go home to teach him with a bit of experience beforehand.  
You got another book before sitting down to learn. It was a book about identification of wild flowers and mushrooms. You breathed in and opened the ASL basics book, feeling determined.

Time passed, evidently from the orange glow of the sky reflecting on the page you were reading. You could do the alphabets now and basic phrases, although still a little slow on the signing and remembrance of some letters. You motioned your hands to spell out your name another time, slightly faster than your previous attempt.

"Oh, you didn't eat the skin." You looked behind to see the librarian walking towards you.

"Oh, I'll eat it later." your chuckle echoes, filling the void of silence.

"Hmm. You're the one who's living at that house, aren't you?" she sat down across from you. She had offered another tangerine in which you accepted with a thanks.   
"Yes." you played with the small fruit on your hand. You were nervous, expecting a curse of your damnation from the hands of Michael from her. You had heard of it many times from people but you just can't get used to it, especially now he's living with you, or rather openly living with you, since he has always been there.

"He had caused a scene near the grocery store, it was annoying to drive around so many bystanders and parked cars that were blocking the way." You don't know how this conversation will go, but you didn't mind talking with her. She must be bored out of her mind.

In a disbelieving tone, you replied with a scoff. "That's impossible. All I know he was shot dead by that doctor."

She pushed up her glasses before replying. "That's strange, I saw him earlier by the window."

Goosebumps swell all over your body, you were trying hard not to look at the window, but you still looked. No one was there. You recollected yourself before answering. "Hah, you've also got jokes, besides a horde of tangerines then."

"I suppose I wouldn't know of anything. Anyway, he was doing this." her hands were raised to her chest and did some motions. You couldn't make sense of what she was doing, then you realized. She had spelled your name. The fruit drops from your moving palm, it rolled off the table but you managed to catch it before it hit the floor.

"He was doing it repeatedly. So much I memorized it." she chuckled. You looked at her closely, you couldn't find a trace of malice, to your dismay. He couldn't have followed you. You didn't dare to joke about running away ever again, and you had told him to give you privacy back then. 

'If it's true. Does he follow me anywhere? Is he here right now, outside?' You didn't feel anything throughout the whole afternoon, the feeling of being stared at.  
You couldn't say anything about it, but nervously laugh. You told her that you will be borrowing the three books that you picked and she had taken note and told you to bring them back by three weeks. You thanked her before exiting the building.

Michael had watched you all day, as always. He had known your schedule by heart now. First, after exiting the house, you would check the spare key in the dirt of a hanging plant to see if it's still there, then you would walk towards work but you would oogle at the furniture shop for a while then run all the way, whenever you were late. 

You would greet the security guard, however today, your boss was next to her, she wasn't scared of him unlike everyone else in the building, but you were unlike her, you walked up to him, shaking. He heard the man's insults and demands even from far away. It was very familiar to him being yelled at. It was irritating at best when Loomis would be especially loud to him, but he had felt more than irritation when he was standing there and listening. It was like he was the one who's being yelled at, that's how he could describe the heavy feeling.

Then you would eat lunch with Victor, but today you ate alone. The reheated beef stroganoff got rid of your bitter look on your face once tasting it, though it came back when you heard your boss's booming, wheezy laugh. Then you'd continue working until you were done and go home. But you had gone to the town's library today, much to his curiosity. This was new. You'd either go to the store for groceries or walk around town. He had been there before, and seen how odd the librarian act. Although he didn't care about being seen by her, she had seen him before when he would watch his other obsessions in the past. They didn't believe her when she would inform the obsession they were being stared by 'a strange man' but they would ignore her, dismiss it as part of her oddity. It wouldn't make a difference if they had believed her anyway.

Michael was curious of what you were reading, then he slowly recognize what you were doing when you were motioning your hands slowly. He was impressed that you were actually learning, though he would never admit it to himself nor to you. He didn't believe you at all that you would learn ASL, because it was mostly for his sake. No one had done anything for him, even when he was young, not even once from his sister nor parents. Fascinated, he read your lips whenever you would say a letter or phrase and followed the actions. His hands weren't as graceful as yours, as they weren't used to motions other than slashing flesh and crushing bones.

To his surprise, he was a fast learner, much faster than you were. Every time you would repeat an alphaphet to correct yourself, his hands would become less stiff. He spelled out what you were spelling, after three letters, he realized you were signing your name. His hands were curiously more careful and slow, he was already familiar of the ASL's alphabet but something about messing up your name was not a liability. 

You had stopped thereafter to take a break by eating the given tangerine. But he didn't stop, he was still signing your name or more appropriately, yelling. His signing was more aggressive, it was like he wanted for you to notice him. He didn't know why. Michael never liked talking nor his voice, it was a deep-rooted problem but he was talking now, after twenty years, his first words would be your name.

It was a hard thing to realize, for the past month he had felt nothing but unfamiliar emotions that he hadn't felt or he had repressed. Emptiness was filled with color, like an intruder, which is figuratively, you are. He dislikes it, of course. Hates it. Because of the unfamiliarity and strangeness that you were making him feel. The closest thing he will admit what was something between him and you was symbiosis. Though, he felt more than that.

"Okay, so. I brought some books from the library about ASL." you set them down, facing him, you also set down some papers and pens. He points at the third book that was on the sofa, then to your surprise, he touches his left hand with his right finger and it glides down. He had asked "What is that?"

He had found your surprised face oddly funny, although he had seen it a lot of times. You were still like a feral animal around him, always in fight-or-flight mode. "O-Oh, this? It's just- A book about wildflowers and mushrooms. I want to pick some in the woods." you scratched your cheek, it blossoms into pink. Shy of sharing your interests.

You sat down on the floor, facing him. You cleared your throat and clasped your hands on your table, clearly nervous of what you were going to say. "Do you follow me everywhere?" you looked straight at him, despite fear behind your eyes, your eye contact didn't waver.

He doesn't know enough sign to answer clearly, he took a pen and paper and wrote down the answer. His handwriting was scratchy, but readable enough. Two simple words. "Ever since."

You only nod. You can't do anything about it, you know that. With nervous eyes, you looked into his single blue one. The clasped fingers of yours loosen. "You didn't have to do that, you know." 

His head tilts, questioningly. No more than that.

"Last night. I couldn't fight him off, I know. I did need assistance but... You didn't have to kill him like that." your hand rested on your abdomen, a tiny slit of a wound was under there.

He signs, "I know."

"Then why?" 

He didn't answer, not only because he doesn't know how to but if he was going to say the reason, it would make him vulnerable. Emotionally and physically. He didn't trust you enough even he had begrudgingly accepted your presence in his home. You could still kill him, and he could still kill you. His actions are causes of curiosity and fascination, but also of anger.

"You don't have to answer. Thank you, by the way. For saving me." your voice hadn't wavered and you sounded genuine. 

He signs, his hands flowed smoothly. "It's okay."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic descriptions of violence and sexual assault will be in this chapter.

When you had suggested learning sign together with Michael, you didn't imagine it would go this way. Instead of you teaching, he was the one. After work, you'd uneasily sit down with him across the dinner table and he'd ask you how your day was, you'd had to reply in sign and if you tried to talk the rest out, he wouldn't let you go. He'd stare you down with an icy gaze. Nothing more. He just makes you uncomfortable. You'd continue on, flipping through the books while being judged immensely with crossed arms. It wasn't frustrating, you thought it was actually funny how determined he was about it. Though, sometimes he would ignore you if you didn't talk back in sign, and didn't answer always, because that's how he is. 

  
You had asked him questions about himself as part of the exercise, nothing too personal nor stress-inducing (for your sake). It made you trust the man more. Not a whole lot, but a fair portion. You know that he's twenty-six, his birthday was on the nineteenth of October and he likes sweets, it took him a while to answer the last one. Although you already know, you just wanted him to admit it. 

"We could celebrate your birthday, if you want." you suggested one night. In which he didn't answer, but it was a very clear "No."

On your part, he hadn't asked you things you like or something personal either. It was because he either already knew or didn't care. Michael still was cautious of you, he knows what you are capable of, you aren't weak . Though, day by day, the distrust crumbles, like an ancient pillar. Ever slowly. Dust by dust and piece by piece. You were more than an obsession to him, as you were making him feel unempty.

When he watches you cook, he'd watch on from an arm's length, even when you'd handle a knife. You would fill the silence with idle chatter or that song you like that you always kept repeating. When you'd hum along, his breathes would become slow and relaxed. One time when you had a free day, you informed him you'll be visiting the woods to look for in-season mushrooms, clad in boots, an old shirt and a jumper. He thought you looked ridiculous, but you defended by saying it was appropriate and charming. Surprisingly, he followed you. Even more surprising, he had guided you throughout the foraging wordlessly, the quality and abundance of the meadow mushrooms you had gathered were very good. You even found honey mushrooms and parasol mushrooms. You praised him for his good eye, even joked that he would be a good partner for foraging from now on.

"Isn't this boring for you?" you asked him, while sitting on a rotted log covered with moss, admiring your stash. 

He nodded. 

"Then, why are you here?" you continued. 

"You will poison me." he simply signed. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. The thought never crossed your mind but you didn't argue with him about it. You flicked out a false meadow mushroom afterwards, a bit afraid that you accidentally proved his suspicion. Though, he was the one who put it there to dare you to poison him. 

The day ended happily, and you cracked some jokes on the way home. He didn't respond to any of them, not a grunt or a disappointed sigh. Unbeknownst to you, underneathe the very ground that had housed the mushrooms you had picked, lay various of weathered bodies wherence the land had become fertile and fat. Feeding the land with each rotting muscle, bone and flesh. He had led you purposely to a hidden graveyard of his victims filled with lost sons and daughters with broken bones and deep gashes, never to be seen again. 

He had eaten the mushroom toast after you've slept. The texture was satisfying to bite into and he especially liked the caramelized onion. He was satisfied, to say the least.

It was the day of Halloween and you've been thinking non-stop about a gift for him, after he had told you about his birthday. You were going to give him a gift, you ultimately decided. You can't think of anything else what he likes except sweets. You weren't going to try and kill the man with diabetes, so you put the idea of sweets as a gift aside. Then as if a lightbulb illuminated above your head, you excitedly smiled at your idea. Music. He didn't mind listening to your favorite song, but you want to mix up your genre a bit. You figured that he hates music that's too loud but not too boring and slow. You know of a band that's fits perfectly, Queen. He was out of the house, he hadn't told you where he would be going but he never did that anyway. That was your job. 

You set out dressed in a comfy sweater and a scarf since the chill was more noticeable as winter slowly comes, but that didn't stop the joyous children with anxious guardians or parents to enjoy the spooky holiday. You couldn't help but smile at their adorable costumes as you spot them trick-or-treating with glee. You bought small bags of candies yesterday in case if some kids were brave enough to go to the "haunted house", as they've named your home. 

When you finally reached to the town center, it was surprisingly bustling. Against all odds, they still celebrate the holiday. Some stores were decorated with simple jack-o-lanterns and some stores were extravagant and showy. It was nice that people are seeing the bright side of things, despite deep in their gut, they know somebody is probably going to die tonight. You pushed away the intrusive thought, and hurried towards the record shop in view.

The door opened with a bell, notifying the cash registrar, an old man who's lazily reading a music magazine. He greeted you with a solemn nod, and you nodded back. The place was beautiful and it smelled amazing, like vanilla but not overbearing. The shelves were neatly lined and painted with a sleek black. Genres of the albums were taped over on each headboard. Your fingers shuffled over album after album, looking for the one in your mind. You've decided with Sheer Heart Attack, the album was catchy and you thought it was up in his lane, at least you think so. To your relief, you found the album hidden at the last section. Somebody must've been saving up for it, judging the way it was placed. You mutter a quick apology before walking to the cashier.

"Hi, I would live to buy this record." you carefully placed the album on the neat counter. He placed down the magazine he was reading and rung out the record, and placed it into a paper bag, which was customized with their store's name with a neat font.

You handed him 18 dollars. One of his hands fumbled to open the cash register, and shortly mumbled to see it was empty of cents. You looked at the man closely as he was busy pouring in a bag of cents and some dollar bills. He looked like he was maybe in his late 50s or going into 60s but he was still spry for his age. His arms were inked with artful tattoos, his fingers were calloused, dictating he plays the guitar. This man knows music better than you do. It wouldn't hurt to ask for advice.

You cleared your throat, his green eyes snap at you. "What do you need? Don't worry, I'm almost finished."

"Oh, I-- Sir, is it alright to ask some advice for a gift for a friend?" you placed your arm on the counter, trying to be comfortable.

"I may be old but I'm not Santa Claus, kid." he scoffed. Picking out the rest of your change, slowly. Your face blooms red.

"No! It's- It's not like that. I'm actually going to give this for a friend. I don't know what kind of music they like and I'd like to know if you could help me out." he stops counting the coins, and urges for you to continue with a wave of his hand.

"They're very quiet, doesn't talk much. I don't think they like classics, but I don't think they like loud music either. So, I'm kind of stumped on what to give them, besides Queen." you explained to him as he nods along. 

"What about Velvet Underground?" he swept the coins back in to the register, understanding as you are planning to buy another album.

"That's great! Yes, I think they'll like them." you nodded happily at his recommendation. 

"David Bowie?" he suggested another artist. You discreetly peered down at your wallet, it was practically begging for you to stop and just buy one album. You sighed, slightly embarrassed. You really wanted to get The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars as well. 

You slowly shook your head, clearly saddened. "I think I'll get Velvet Underground for now. Thank you."

He only grunted and waited for you to come back with the album. It took you less time than looking for Sheer Heart Attack, he rung up the album and gave the change in advance. You thanked him with a smile, grateful with his recommendation.

"Hey kid. I'm not trying to scare you, but- A man's been standing outside ever since you arrived." he motioned his hand with a lit cigarette at the window. You looked to see no one but a spray-painted wall. But, of course you knew who he was talking about. You hoped Michael didn't find out about your surprise.

"I'll be careful. Thanks again." you waved goodbye to him before pushing the door open to exit the small building.

You decided to stop by at a quaint diner to eat something since you were getting hungry. It was bustling and warm inside, the place was filled with patrons who were seeking refuge from the early chill and teens who were hanging out with their friends.

"I'm so sorry for the wait. Here's your cup of cocoa and glazed donut, darlin'" a plump woman sets down your order. You nodded and thanked her, your hands enveloped the cup to heat them up, as they were slightly cold. You let out a contented sigh by the blooming warmth.

"Mind if I sit with you?" a deep, familiar voice pulls you out of your thoughts. Your eyes snapped open to see the person, it was Victor. You tried your best not to splash the warm drink at his face and tell him to fuck off. Instead, you forced an uneasy smile and nodded. 

Victor, ever since you had that strange conversation, has been acting weird. He was either too close or too far. He became loud and annoying, disrupting you as you work. He still invites you to lunch even if you didn't want to. He'd cut you off every time you would try to protest. Never took no as an answer.

"Didn't expect to see you here." he plainly says. He sat across you, his hands widespread above the red seat. He was trying to show off. Your nose scrunched up when you notice his abhorrent cologne.

"Neither you." you mumbled before drinking the cocoa. For a brief moment, the warm drink made you feel at peace. But that was cut short when he spoke again.

"You seem to have your hands full." he pointed at your two paper bags of vinyls. As if he was going to lunge for the items, you hugged them closer to your body. Your patience was wearing thin, evidently from how bone-white your knuckles were from clasping your hands.

"They're just two bags."

"So, who's it for?" his whole body leans towards you, his hands resting under his chin.

You leaned back as far as you can, really trying to send the guy the message for him to fuck off. "Who says it's for somebody?" you can't help but scoff at his random assumption. The nerve.

"I don't know. You. You're giving them to someone picky, I've heard." Your strong front wavered. _How'd he know? Was he in the store?_ "

Does it matter, Victor?" you feel your teeth ache from how much you were gritting your teeth. Your hands were begging for you stop clasping together as they hurt from how much you were trying to stay calm.

"Wait. Hold the phone. I get it, those are for me!" he exclaimed, his voice had made your eardrums ring. You could see his hands trying to grab yours, but you were quick enough get them away from his reach. He didn't seem to notice the denial to let him touch you, as he excitedly goes on how much he was happy that he you liked the same bands as him.

You couldn't take it anymore, you slammed down the payment for your mostly untouched food and left the place as quickly as you could.

Your sudden departure had stunned Victor momentarily, but he was able to shout out "I'll see you at work then!" before sitting back down at the seat. He eyed your cup of cocoa that was still warm, his hands shook with eagerness as he grabbed the drink, almost spilling it over himself. He pressed his chapped lips to drink the bevarage. He didn't relish the drink, but relished the fact his lips were touching where yours once was.

You arrived home running again, you could feel your legs build muscle by how much frequent this was becoming. You strip off your sweater and scarf that had felt too hot and placed them on the sofa, and along with your bag. Your plan for the rest of the noon was to wrap the gifts with a simple cover, cook up something a little special and maybe, give him some candy. You haven't been questioning your actions around Michael so much more nowadays. But your interactions with him day by day really does cheer you up even though he is who he is. He occasionally hides your stuff to fuck with you, scares you when you walk around the house, (you were noisy as hell, as if your feet were really going out of their way to step on the creakiest floorboard ever) and wake you up by pushing you off the bed, if you were being very stubborn. You feel like he's the only one you have in this town. Maybe you should get a pet. No dogs though.

You start by wrapping up the vinyls with brown parchment and a small, fiber rope. It was neat and simple, you hid them behind the vinyl player, so you could reach them easily. As much as you want to play the songs, you had to wait for Michael. At the mean time, you played the records that you have to fill the house with life. You tear open the bags of candy for possible trick-or-treaters and poured them all in a medium bowl. Again, you weren't expecting much of trick-or-treaters because of the history of the house, but better to be prepared than never. You could just eat them with Michael anyway if no one decides to show up.

You spent the rest of the afternoon cooking, and to your excitement, had actual trick-or-treaters. There were only two groups though, but you were still happy to see them. Their costumes were adorable and they asked you questions about your "haunted house", you entertained them by saying you lived with ghosts and monsters with extravagant hand movements and a comical spooky voice, they were both terrified and excited by your "bravery". They walked away with bags full of candy and excited that they talked to the person living in the Myers' House who confirmed they lived with supernatural entities. Your face had hurt from smiling at their adorable behavior, even still when you saw their parent's judgemental stare. After that, you had called your friends back in the city to wished them to enjoy Halloween. They had missed you so much, and wished for you to visit whenever you can. You could only half-heartedly promise, and blamed the reason with work and the travel distance. They fake-cried and shortly laughed, but they do genuinely wish you can visit them. This time, you promised and quickly hanged up when you noticed the food was close to burning.

You were able to salvage the sautéed honey mushrooms within seconds, much to your relief. Placing down a large plate, you carefully poured the contents of the pan on it. 

"Linger on... Your pale blue eyes." you hummed to yourself happily. You were happy at how it turned out, you even took a piece to taste it. It was sweet and delicious. Just right.

You flicked your wrist to see the time, it was already close to 10. He doesn't have a specific time arriving home, and it wasn't strange for him to be gone in such long hours. You just want him to eat a warm meal for just once, and you had gifts for him as well. You made your way to your living room to rest, you sighed as you stretched out your body on the sofa. 

"Well, he has only one eye. So- Pale blue eye..." you hummed out the last part. You obviously got The Velvet Underground because the album reminded you of Michael. 

Speak of the devil, a creak from the kitchen had gotten your attention. You feel your face warm up with a smile. You stood up as fast as you could, almost slipping on the tiles.  
"Michael!" you shouted.

Your warmth and excitement was was cut short, replaced with terror. It wasn't Michael. But an invader, however it was no stranger. It was Victor. His face was contorted to an ugly smile, pained and disgust.

"I knew it. You've been... Living with that- WITH THAT MONSTER!!" his high shrill made you wince momentarily. You feel your body overcome with rage. Your hands slammed his body on the kitchen top, your grip was iron on his shoulders.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" every word that came out of your mouth was dripping with venom. You didn't care when you saw the pain in his eyes. Underneath his coat, your fingers had made his skin bruise, growing in size as every second passed.

Despite of it all, he gave you a smirk. "Had he held you down like this? Begging and crying for him not to kill you?" You felt his leg lightly hit your crotch. "How many times had he fucked you out? In return for your life?"

He had kicked you on the stomach as he soon as he felt your grip loosen, his words had rung deep in your soul. One hand had grabbed your neck to a tight hold and his other was holding a knife. He struck you in the thigh, but it barely missed. 

"Oh, the news would love me once they hear this. More ironic that we work at the same place. A journalist, forfeiting their body with a notorious killer." You thrashed under his hold and screamed at his face, a torrent of curses coming out of your mouth. You feel your body radiating heat by how consumed you were with rage.

"Don't worry about my proof. Because-" he hits you hard with the handle of the knife on your crotch "They'll find it everywhere in here."

You hand quickly grabbed for his knife, the edge had cut your palm deep but you never noticed the pain, never faltered. "SHUT UP!! FUCKING SHUT UP!!" you screamed repeatedly.

He was thrown on top of the dinner table, the plates, food and utensils were swept off the floor. Your legs leapt unto the table and straddled his limbs, your hands snaked to the sides of his temple, and then, bashed it repeatedly on the wood. The table gave out, no longer able to handle both grown people over it. 

Strong, thick arms suddenly clasped your torso, you instinctively screamed. Remembering the knife still in your hand, you stabbed it deep into the other person. It had struck them in the thigh. Their arms only tightened.

"FUCKING LET GO OF ME-" you screamed, you were dragged away from the kitchen, up the stairs and into your room. You landed on the bed with a groan. Those eyes bore into your soul when you snapped your head to the other assaulter. Michael.

"MICHAEL- WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! LET ME FUCKING BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!!" your limbs scrambled to get out of the bed, but like vines, your covers get tangled around your legs. He closed the door gently, and you could hear it get locked up from the outside. You feel angry tears run down your face. _How could he?_

He didn't want you to do anything stupid, like killing somebody, even if it was scum like Victor. It wasn't right. You're supposed to be happy, gentle and silly. Not like this. It angered him, not at you. But at the person who had made you feel this way. His boots heavily stomped on the floors as he made his way to the kitchen. The man was still there, stunned and groggy from the beatings he took. He looked at the pan of hot oil that you were trying to get earlier. He had to finish what you started. Victor's hair was tangled around a thick, calloused hand as he was pulled away from the house and deep into the neck of the woods.

He passed by his "cemetery", he didn't want to kill him here and taint the land with his body. Didn't want to taint the memories you had with him. So, he marches on with a screaming man who was good as dead.

He hadn't been in this part of the forest before, but it was the perfect place. Far away enough from the foraging grounds and the house. Just trees and wild animals. He slammed down the man on the earth, dirt had gotten into his mouth by how hard the impact was. He could only groan. 

"W-What the fuck?! FUCKING STOP, YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!!" Victor beat his fists against the chest of the killer. The punches will never stop whatever he was going to do to the reporter. Michael gripped the sides of the man's mouth, forcefully opening it. Victor's eyes widened to see what he was about to do, he could only scream. Though, that was cut short and replaced with gurgles.

Hot oil seeped into his mouth, and seared everything on its way. Lips, gums, throat and esophagus had reddened and swelled. Some of the oil splashed on the killer's skin, but he never stopped pouring until the pan was completely empty. He forced the man to swallow the remains by tilting the reporter's head. Victor couldn't scream anymore, but only pathetically choke and make gibberish sounds. The oil had destroyed his vocal chords and his lips weren't completely sealed as the oil melted the flesh together, but even so, he wanted to scream.

Michael's hands wrapped each leg in a vice grip. He stood at full height with hands still around the helpless man's legs. Then, there came a loud, echoing crunch that sounded throughout the forest. Scaring away every creature that hadn't run away yet. Michael had hit the man's back against a wide oak tree, breaking every single bone on his spine, chest and arms.

The man was paralyzed from the waist down. He could still feel the burning oil, unluckily for the man. Michael had rendered the man mute and paralyzed, he can never scream for help nor he can crawl away. No animal, not even a starving one would bite into his flesh. But only maggots, worms, beetles and flies would eat him and use his body to house their young. At least he finally found a purpose, even after his death.

Michael found you still on the bed, angrily shedding tears and trying to stifle your sobs. When you noticed him standing at your door, you pushed yourself off the bed and ran at him with raised fists. He grabbed your wrists before you could hit him, you pulled and push your hands away from the man kicked your legs whereever you could hit him. It took you a while, but you eventually quieted down. He lets go of your wrists, they were bruised with clear marks of the pads of his fingers and the heel of his palm. 

"I'm sorry- I... I didn't mean to." you hid your bruised arms away, since he was staring at them. "You're hurt too. I... I stabbed you earlier." your voice cracked at the last word. Your heart had felt heavy, you had hurt Michael. You could feel tears threatening to fall, but you rubbed them away.

"Let's get cleaned up." you looked up at Michael. He slowly nodded. 

His knife wound was bad, which made you feel worse. You repeatedly apologized to him while treating the wound with antibiotic ointment and stitches. You also treated the burns that he received from the splashing oil. He didn't say anything. 

Up until this point, you forced yourself not to cry and rubbed away your eyes whenever tears tried to fall. But you couldn't handle it anymore. Your palm had a nasty gash. Your kitchen was destroyed, broken wood and glass laid everywhere on the tiles. Your coworker broke into your home and physically assaulted you. And worst of all, you had hurt Michael. Your only friend at this shithole of a town. You looked away from Michael, embarrassed by how much you were crying.

"I'm sorry- I guess it's just all too much for me." your laugh came out weak and pathetic. Underneath his mask, he had frowned. What he was about to do felt unfamiliar or strange for him, but it felt right. So, he followed his intuition. 

Warm hands enveloped your face to make you look at his mask. No, not his mask. But just him. Michael. His breathes were noticeably loud, but they were slow and relaxed. You caught on what he was trying to do, you mimicked his breathing. Once you were calmer and your tears had stopped, his hands moved gently under your arms and pulled you close to his torso, where you were placed between his legs. He was warm, like a human heater. He had smelled like your detergent powder and faintly, of blood.   
His hands had moved in front of you, letting you see them. He slowly signed.

"You're safe. You're with me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I really liked writing this chapter, it was very fun. I actually want to say sorry about the way I write Michael. I put the warning in the tags that my depiction of Michael is tamer than how other people write him and I feel like I'm disgracing the way he should be written. So, I'm really sorry. Thanks for reading this chapter everyone!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, hey! I'm really sorry for the late update and an underwhelming, short chapter after the wait. I had a really bad week, so bad I couldn't think properly. Anyway, again, I'm really sorry for the late update. I'll make it up by writing the next chapter longer.
> 
> Song: The Velvet Underground - Pale Blue Eyes

Like clockwork after Halloween, the first day of November, Haddonfield was immediately busy with people that work for the police, hospitals, the news and local volunteers for search and rescue teams which were mostly composed of teary-eyed parents and distraught lovers. The Shape had attacked the town once again, but this time, he had done things differently and unordinary. There were still people who were killed, of course. Sporting deep gashes of maimed flesh and deep purple bruises from his inhumane strength, but the injuries were odd, and usually his victims had some sort of a relationship with each other ranging from an intimate level to plain neighbors, but these victims were strangers to each other. It was like he picked them at random by spinning around with his eyes closed and one hand stretched out, and killed whoever his finger had pointed at. 

Known to all the people who studied Michael's behavior, he had standards on how he kills, he's not a rabid dog who'll sink his teeth into whoever he sees. He is patient and is almost theatrical on how he murders his obsessions. A madman who's fascinated by how easily people die with the sleight of his hand and by how their life and color drain out with their very last memory is being brutally murdered. Michael Myers had acted uncharacteristically sloppy. Victims were haphazardly and obviously rushed to be killed and some looked like they were used like a tool to relieve whatever he was feeling. Anger? Stress? 

These new cases had intrigued those who were studying Myers. Hell, they were having a field day about it. They labeled him to be a dead man walking. Were they wrong? They know he never speaks nor he feels anything other than his disturbing desire to kill. He is, simply put, pure evil incarnate. 

"So, what do you think about it?" a coworker of yours beamed, too bright and too loud. You don't know her name.

"Evil incarnate?" you murmured while you shuffled each page you had to edit, it was maybe two to three inches thick of headlines and reports. You were going to have a long day.

"What's up with you? You look unwell." she waved her hands at your figure. You didn't look up from your task of nonstop skimming of page after page after page. 

"Don't worry, this is how I just look like." you bitterly chuckled at your own self-deprecating joke. She frowned at that, you stopped her before she could say another word. You were too tired and too busy to entertain anyone. You just wanted to be home right now, wrapped around your warm covers and sleep the whole day away. 

"Look, I have so much shit to get done. Fuck. Where the hell is Victor anyway?!" you exclaimed especially loud at the last part. Making sure a small proximity of people could hear you. You were a little worried with how much attention you were getting, but you had to do this. You have to act natural. Act as an annoyed coworker who is looking for their partner to help out with these reports. Act like he's not dead as fuck. 

"I don't know, he should be here right now. He's usually the first one to be here after Halloween, gushing on about Myers and claiming some unbelievable shit. Stuff like he uses his victim's bodies as a meat blanket." she sighed after taking a drink out of her green mug. "He's batshit."

That made you stop reading the reports on your hands. Had he always visited every Halloween at the Myers' house? Perhaps he thought he would get some evidences or even thought he would run into Michael, snap a photo or two. Make the biggest scoop. It was all a huge miracle he hadn't run into Michael before. 'Well, now he's rotting somewhere in some ditch or some random shithole.' you thought to yourself. 

"Ugh, I just want him to be here and help me." you groaned. 

"I'll help you out, I know it's not my field but seeing you with that amount of reports is equally distressing." she quipped, smiling warm. You take the moment to look at her closely but discretely. Well, she looks harmless enough. Her grin looked genuine and there was no malice behind her eyes, despite being so similar like Victor. 

"Thanks, miss..." you trailed out, perhaps a little embarrassed you didn't know her name despite being here for a month now. She even helped you out before. 

"Marchant, Eliza Marchant." she completed her name for you, before you could say you were sorry. She came close to your desk and took some of the papers from the pile and left to go back to her cubicle. You hoped she wasn't just putting up a front like Victor did. Honestly, with all of this happening since the day you arrived town, you don't know to trust anyone else but yourself. And of course, Michael. 

You had woken up this morning with crust around your eyes and dried snot on your shirt, you were still embarrassed by your breakdown, but what happened last night was too much, so much. Your house was still trashed and you had bruises and a cut on your hand, of course you weren't going to act like everything is normal about all of this. Walking around with a skip and stopping to smell the fucking flowers.

To your surprise, you were on your bed. Not neatly tucked in with your blanket, but by the looks of it, he just plopped you down like a sack of potatoes(you didn't weigh shit to him). Well, at least you didn't have to deal with an aching back and/or a stiff neck by sleeping on the old, wooden floors. So, you were a little glad. 

You didn't find him that morning. It was a normal thing to wake up alone and eating alone despite Michael being more trusting with you. But... You needed him this morning. As embarrassing or confusing it sounded to you, you wished he would do the same thing he did last night. His hands that had killed countless, moved so gently when he 'spoke'. He purposely made his breathing slow and loud so you could follow the calming technique.

_Evil incarnate. Evil incarnate. Evil incarnate?_

"Is that normal?" you asked to your reflection on a bowl of soggy, cold cereal.   
'No'. A thought of yours replied.

It's not that you were back on square one with Michael, you had made huge progress these few weeks with him. But you were questioning everything again. You were living with a serial killer and actively protecting him, not for your safety, but his. It feels worse for you because you're a journalist. Your job is literally about saving the citizens by informing the people about danger, so they would be safe. So they wouldn't get brutally murdered and be stuffed in some closet or get ditched in the forest. Needless to say, you were having an existential crisis over this. 

"You okay?" a voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"Yeah- I'm just... I guess a little sick." you didn't look up at Eliza, your eyes were stuck to the short list of missing people you had to include to the newspaper. Debbie Smith, Gilbert West, Sam Cook... The list goes on. You knew it was Michael who was responsible for this. You could feel your gut twisting in confused fear. Your crisis worsened. 

"You need to chill out, especially with your injury." she points at your bandaged hand. You also wore a really long, sweater that goes past your hands to hide Michael's marks on your wrists. The blue and purple bruises worsened overnight, it had become so bad and noticeable. It hurt but did he mean it to hurt? Or did he not know his own strength? 

"Don't worry about it. It'll heal in a week."

The ASL books were due today, you badly wanted to go home after finishing the mountain of reports on your desk, but you had to renew the borrowed books. You weren't bad with sign but not great either. Unlike Michael who could sign a whole movie script, if he wanted to. 

"You know that bees shouldn't be able to fly?" Eliza randomly said to you this afternoon, you were almost done with your work. You looked at her weirdly. "Their wings are too small to get their fat little body of the ground. But, bees fly anyw-" You stopped listening to her. 

Though you did caught him the other day in the bathroom holding your shampoo battle, he was signing the instructions and the chemical names like he was practicing to sign faster. When he finally noticed you after what seemed like half a minute standing there and watching him with a grin. He harshly placed down the bottle where it belonged and walked past you as if nothing happened. The memory made you chuckle, easing your stress a bit from all your constant questioning about your morales. 

"Finally, you smiled. I couldn't stand looking at your grim expression." the short librarian behind the counter expressed. She had gifted you another tangerine when she saw you walked in. You still don't know her name but you badly want to call her Ms. Tangerine.

The library was empty again, everybody was busy with everything else or being too afraid to come out. You looked around anyway, really making sure no one is here. After seeing no one else but the woman, you sucked in a huge breath before speaking.

"I know that you know about, Myers." you told her.

"Of course I do. I told you about his staring didn't, I? I also told other people about him." she replied curtly. 

"Other people?" you asked with a raised brow. You feel fear spiking in your gut like a twisting knife. _Had she told the police? Had she told the media-_

"You know, his victims." she said and surprised you, it was too casual for your liking. You frowned at the fact. She cuts you off before you could comment about her direct answer.

She had the wildest look in her eyes, the page she was touching was crumpled almost into a ball. "They told me that I was crazy. Mocked me that I was seeing things. I tried telling them so many times, I tried to tell them about Myers. But, I gave up. I'm the 'insane librarian', after all. No one listens to me."

You frowned, she had covered her face with her old, wrinkled hands but they couldn't stop her tears from falling down. You know she couldn't avoid their deaths by warning them, even if she really, really tried. You've seen the way he kills and you've felt those strong hands on your frame. They never had a chance. She never had a chance. You carefully placed your hand on her shoulder, trying not to startle her. She lightly flinched. 

"... Michael's living with me." You whispered under your breathe, almost too quiet to hear. But she heard you, you felt her shoulder stiffen under your hand just by hearing his name. You wondered in the back of your mind if this was a good idea. 

She looked up to you with her reddened eyes and her slight frown. Then, you saw the edges of her lips curl into a toothy smile. Immediately, you were drowning in regret. You pulled back your hand as if she burned your skin, and practically jumped away from her. 

"YOU IDIOT, WHY DID YOU TELL ME THAT?! HAHA, NOW THE PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE ME!!" she screamed maniacally before rushing out of the building, like the speed of sound. 

But that didn't happen, of course. Instead, she eyed you down, and by the looks of it, was trying hard not to burst out in laughter. "It's very obvious. Where else would he live? I wouldn't had imagine him putting up with your shit, but you're still alive."

You couldn't say anything. Still surprised she didn't do what you had expected her to do. Well, maybe the 'speed of sound' was a bit of a stretch of an expectation. After a minute passed of just you staring at her like a deer on headlights, you finally said something. You were a bit unnerved how calm she was. 

"Is it obvious?" you croaked. That part had worried you so much.

"I don't know. Maybe." she shrugged, she went back to her normal self after finally laughing at your reactions. "You should see your face, you look ridiculous right now."

"Goddamit. I'm trying to be serious here." You sighed out, feeling some of the nervousness on your stomach go away. She stopped herself from poking more fun at you. 

"Have you even thought about the things he do?" 

You looked at her weirdly. You were slowly convincing yourself that this woman is actually an ancient, mind-reading witch. "I've been thinking about that all day. I don't know what he does at all. Except, you know."

"Well... Let's put it this way then." she propped her chair closer to you. "Why is your house safe? Why are you here right now? Why does he follow you everywhere?" After that, she was now looking at you like you were the biggest idiot in the world. She very much felt like an intense host of a Q&A game show, and you were a losing contestant. 

"I- I don't understand. What are you trying to say?" She was wrong, your house wasn't completely safe thanks to Victor's break-in. What does she mean about you being here right now? Does she want you to die? Michael does follow you everywhere, because he thinks you'll run away again or-

  
_Wait_.

The realization hit like you like a speeding truck, and you frowned. Victor's break-in. It all made sense now. 

You swallowed down your spit, trying to avoid croaking out your words again. She grinned ear to ear at your realization. She already knew, but she urged for you to continue, wanting to hear it from your own mouth.

"He's been.. He's been killing the people who would go near the house. West, Smith, Cook... They tried to get in and-"

"Is it just really your house?" 

"His house?" 

"No."

"Our house?" 

"Well, yes. But that's not the point." Her head was now rested on her palm, and she gave you an all-knowing smile. You still weren't quite right. Not yet. So, she urged you once again to go on. 

You saw flashes of blood, a cheap, black ski-mask and his glinting knife. 

You couldn't look at her, you didn't want to say it. Perhaps a little guilty you were doubting Michael. "He's... He's been protecting me, as well."

Of course he had. Why would else he wrap you around his body and engulf you with his warmth and calming breathes? Why would else he bother to learn a way just to talk with you? And why would else he, a murderous man who could immediately kill someone with a sleight of his hand, allow you to smear his overalls with your tears and snot when you cried last night? He almost couldn't sit through that last one though. After you had slept, he immediately threw his overalls in the washer and dumped all the contents of a newly-opened box of detergent powder to really make sure your gross fluids would come off his clothes.

You felt silly. Really, really silly that you had doubted the man.

"I'll be back to renew these books, alright?"

"Of course, dear. Be back by three weeks."

As always, he arrived first. Michael watched you kick off your shoes and sit beside him on the couch. He moved away a bit, so you could see him sign. Time for your exercise. He puts up his hands on the level of his chest. 

"Before that, Michael. I have something for you. Well, I was supposed to give it you yesterday but- Well, you know what happened." 

He lowered his hands back to his thighs. Unbeknownst to him, his nails had dug in the fabric of his clothes. He was confused, a gift? Why would you give him a gift? You should be using your money for better things. Like, furniture, a new table and kitchen utensils and plates.

You went down on all fours and reached in behind a cabinet. Soon enough, you were able to fish out what you were getting. He tilted his head, signifying to you that he was disconcerted and a little wary. He thought of gifts as a sign of bribery, so he immediately thought that you were trying to bribe him off your life. Which was a normal thing to do, perhaps. He is a dangerous man, so it wouldn't be abnormal for someone trying to appease him. His previous obsessions had offered their body for sex in exchange for their lives, of course that didn't work well for them. At all. 

"Come on, open it." you sat back on the old, leather couch, but closer. Close enough he could count your lashes, close enough he can feel your contained excitement eminating out of you. He pulled the brown, fiber rope and tore the brown parchment, maybe too fast or even... Excitedly?

He pushed away the last thought. He had received gifts before as a child but he never appreciated them, he found them to be frivolous and unimportant for him. His hands froze after seeing the contents, the black, red and white covers surprised him. He could recognize these, they were vinyls. Back in the mental institute, they would 'lively' up the place by blasting music through their old, crackling speakers. Most of the songs were classics like Mozart or Beethoven. He was sick of it. They'd play it over and over non-stop throughout the day. But, once in a blue moon, they'd play Satie's 'Gnossiene', which he tolerated the most. The staff noticed soon enough his tolerance for Satie, so they stopped playing Satie's songs altogether. The pettiness had made him scoff, spooking his personal guard and had earned a bewildered look from the nervous man. 

"I know you don't want to bother with your missed birthday, but..." he caught your eyes looking at his only one, shortly you looked away. "I appreciate you, Michael. Yo-You're the... The only one I have." he saw your hands starting to shake and fidget.

His hands did as well. He didn't know what to do. Your voice had sounded so genuine and was so filled with utmost care. It stirred something deep in him which again, he couldn't place. It didn't feel right, everything doesn't feel right. What were you doing to him? What was he doing? Why were you still here? His heart felt so heavy and full. He wished it to stop. He didn't like it. _STOP IT, STOP IT-_

One, mighty hand slammed down on your neck, you never had the chance to cry out in shock nor in pain. His one eye was clouded with something he couldn't understand. His whole frame was shaking.  
It hurt, the back of your head hurt and those thick fingers were wrapped around your neck in an ironclad grip. Amidst through your pain and fear, you were confused. You couldn't speak, you were digging in your nails in his arm, begging for him to stop. His hand neither tightened nor loosen. You looked at the mask in front you, watched it blow up almost like a balloon by how much he was rapidly breathing. Then, you looked at his eye. There, you saw it. Tears. They rolled down fast, but they never stopped. He never whined, sobbed nor grunted. Just tears and rapid breathing. 

_Evil incarnate. Evil incarnate. Evil incarnate._

Evil incarnate? No, you only saw a boy. A confused, scared boy. 

You immediately stopped yourself from trying to pry his arms off. You brought your hands up to his vision, you were very careful not to cover your face. You wanted to see him. You wanted Michael to see your comforting smile. 

"You're okay. You're safe with me." You signed. Slow due to the lack of knowledge and remembrance, but also slow to ease him, even just a little. 

You gasped in huge, deep breaths like a fish out of water. You gagged and choked, trying to ease out your pained throat and neck. Michael was on the floor, not quite lying but not quite sitting. He had brought up his hands to the top of his head. You noticed upon closer inspection that he was holding down the hand that choked you.  
You forced your shaky legs to stand up and walk, you successfully did after three attempts. You picked up the dropped vinyls and pulled out one of them of its cover and protective sheet.

_Sometimes I feel so happy, sometimes I feel so sad._

Michael snapped his head to the source of the sound, he saw you standing beside the record player through his watery eye. It falls down. Another tear falls down when he noticed you weren't looking down at him like he was a mad dog, and that you were giving him a soft, gentle smile.  
"This song reminds me of you, Michael." you signed to him. Your voice still weak and painful, you couldn't speak a word. "It's cheesy, I know."

_Sometimes I feel so happy, but mostly you just make me mad. Baby, you just make me mad._

He was shaking like a leaf and his erratic breathing didn't slow down, but the tears had stopped. The mask had stuck to his face like glue due to the dried tears. He brought up a shaky hand to separate the latex from his skin.

_Linger on... Your pale blue eyes. Linger on... Your pale blue eyes_.

Your warm hand met his, and you gave it a soft caress. It was a daring move, but you did it anyway. You interlaced your fingers with his. "I trust you, Michael. I will never leave you, my friend." You talked through your hoarse voice, it felt like pins and thorns were lodged in your throat. 

Your eyes met his, for a moment you stayed there, just staring and listening to the music. He closed his eyes after feeling the dryness for not blinking in so long, then he slowly placed his cheek upon your interlocked hands.

He had never felt so safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I very much appreciate the comments from last chapter, I couldn't stop smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

Michael always woke up first, no matter the consequences. Even if he did nothing but watch and follow you all day with his unending fascination and curiousity of you, or even if he was weary and wounded from all the day's work of tracking down the people who cursed and laid their hands on you and your house's "visitors" and killing them the most grueling, unimaginable ways. The point is, he feels like he shouldn't be here, sitting on the couch with swollen eyes and his face still sticky from all the tears last night.

"What's up? You're stiff as a board, well, more than usual." he heard you say, he felt his body loosen up a bit from your comment and from hearing your teasing voice.

"You should be at work." He signed to you as he watched you scarf down your breakfast of fried eggs and rice. He felt his stomach rumble, prompting you to laugh and immediately choke on your food. He frowned beneath his mask. 

"Don't worry, I made something for you. I'll leave, so you can eat." He wanted to protest, but you were already on your feet with your plate in hand, going upstairs.

The "normalcy" of it all was still strange for Michael, but he wasn't against it, not anymore. Whatever you had done to him, it made him feel things Loomis and the others sworn he would never or feels at all. Adoration, worry, and feeling enjoyment being with another person. A person like you who understands him the most, a person who's patient... It was still strange, but he liked it. He genuinely does. He lifted up his mask with quick fingers to finally eat, soon enough he caught himself smiling while chewing, but he let himself to. As strange as everything was still for him, he wants what he has right now. He really does. 

You had left him to his own devices, for his privacy to finish his breakfast and wash his face. He always slept on the living room, where he hid some of his things but most of his stuff was in a locked guest room, you never went in there due to the lack of a key but you were in the room right now. He had unlocked the room for you, since he trusted you enough.

The room was depressing. It had a mattress in the middle of the room, a milk crate and a wardrobe. You winced when your feet met the room's cold, wooden floors, it was like being in another dimension, despite the room was lighted by a few streaks of sunlight and had a working heater, it was still cold. You tried to flip on the switch, but the light bulb was dead. You added that to the list of things you had to buy, aside from a new table, kitchen utensils, plates, etc.  
A sudden glinting light had assaulted you in the eyes while walking around the room, making you stumble on your own feet. Though you were able to catch yourself before falling down face first on the dusty floor.

"What the fuck is that?" you mumbled while your eyes try to refocus from the daze. You picked up what you thought to be some sort of mirror that flashed you in the eyes, but instead it was a spotless jar on the crate. The paper label has been thumbed thoroughly, but you could still see the handwritten word. You could still see your name on the yellowed paper. You lifted a brow in surprise.

"Huh, where'd he get this? I didn't make these in a while." you mumbled.  
You set the jar down back on the crate carefully, as it was the warmest thing in this cold room, the contrast almost made you drop the jar upon first touching it.  
Soon enough, Michael entered the room curious of what you were doing and he was looking for a fresh pair clothes. You had asked him about the jar when he was finished putting on his black shirt and overalls, he was in so much disbelief that you still didn't realize that you met him the very first day and almost died. He almost had whiplash. 

He looked at the bruises at your neck the whole time you talked with him in the slowly warming room. He felt... Awful. He had laid his hands on you and hurt you again, it wouldn't matter to him maybe a month ago but now that he's slowly accustoming to his unearthed, overwhelming emotions, it made him feel like shit.

"I'm sorry." he signed, cutting off your monologue about anxiously getting to work soon. You immediately knew what he was talking about, you held back from touching your neck thinking the gesture would maybe affect him in a way. You instead gave him the warmest smile, warmer than anything in the room other than the spotless jar. 

"I forgive you, and everything else that you did." Your words felt so sweet, like everything that you are. He grasped your hand and interlocked his fingers with yours like last night. It felt so natural and right, your fingers were softer than his rough, scarred ones but they fit together despite the size difference. _Warm..._

The touches and his new unrestrained looks were making you so happy, perhaps the lack of human contact aside from your friend's phonecalls and other interactions were lacking, perhaps that's why you were happy, you thought to yourself. Your complete acceptance of the man's ways and his genuine care for you had made you become what you are and what he has accepted , two unconventional friends. The morales of everything, your friendship was partly still being questioned by your own ethical thoughts, they won't just disappear with a snap. He had killed and he will kill again, but with all the recent things he has done, was all for you. It would be a slow journey of getting used to, but you were, to your own surprise, ready for it.

"Michael, I'll probably be bringing home a table and some other stuff today. So, just be careful, okay?" you told him while slipping on your shoes at the door, ready to bolt your way to work. You could hear your boss's screaming your name from the establishment. 

You needn't see his nod, but he took your hand, almost gripping it, but he stopped before he could. He let you see his hands and "face", or maybe just him. "I'll see you later."

"Of course, wish me luck. My boss is going to kick my ass." you joked. "But please don't kill him, it's only a matter of time if you keep this up that the people will realize that everything is linked to me." You cut him off after seeing red in his eye just by hearing about your boss. So far, the people who he got rid off were the ones that were brave enough to lay their hands on you and the ones that were loitering outside your home, daring themselves to find out the "truth". Your boss was on the list, but you had a point, but that still won't stop him from trying. 

"Michael, no." you crossed your arms and gave him a half-assed angry look. 

"Michael, yes." he signed, his motions wide and clearly hinting mischief.

A string of laughs slip past your lips before you left. The house felt so empty without you, now that he realized. It was so quiet and lifeless. He went out through backdoor and hid among the trees and bushes. Like he was pulled by an unknown force, he followed after you. 

Like always, from the very start. 

"Yeah, just please put them down there. Don't worry, I'll move them myself. Thanks a lot." Michael heard your commands from outside, he was waiting for the movers to depart. When their vehicle rumbled back to life and its screeching wheels getting farther and farther away from earshot, he slipped back inside the house. There was a square, oak table and some bags on the living room floor. Finally, you went to the local furniture shop to get some stuff and other things, you've always wanted to go in there since the very beginning but with all the things happening for the past weeks, you didn't have the time but also the money. Michael was across the street of the shop, and watched your enamored expressions the whole time, and changed locations when you left his line of sight. 

"Hey, will you help me out moving this thing?" you tapped twice on the table's surface. He positioned himself, facing towards you and put his hands on the sides. Before you could iniate a countdown, he already lifted table by himself like it was nothing and left you there. 

"Showoff!" you yelled at him, accompanied with your laughter. You took a seat on the comfy sofa and you looked at the bags on the floor which are full of decorative miscellaneous things and listened to Lou Reed's singing voice, the name of the song was stuck on the tip of tongue but you didn't care enough to think too much about it.  
'This feels really domestic.' you suddenly wondered to yourself. Because everything about it felt so. The new furnitures and kitchen utensils that needs to be cleaned and arranged, the inviting presence of another person in a house, the slow, orange leaves falling and piling on your front porch and backyard and most of all, the sweet comfort that hanged in the air. It was thick like syrup, you felt like you were drowning in it. 

The hallowing weight of someone sitting beside you snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see Michael's mask and then to his eye, the shade of blue was so beautiful, you just noticed. It was like staring at a gentle, quiet lake in the dark. You feel yourself heat up by the thought. It sounded too intimate.

"I'm going to play a different song. Is that alright?" you stood up too fast, making you slightly stumble and see dancing, black spots, but you managed. You didn't spare a look at his hands for a reply.   
He titled his head slightly, questioning your shift of behavior. You didn't look at him again by the rest of the day. 

Night came as fast as the winter draws near. You were snuggled against a pillow on the couch with a blanket covering your legs. Michael was in the kitchen presumably eating. To an untrained eye, you looked cozy and relaxed and seemed to be fixated on the movie, but you weren't absorbing any information at all. You were still flustered about the sudden thought earlier, but why would you be? Isn't it normal for friends to describe a friend that they're attractive? Yeah. Well, maybe. You were confused on why you were making it a big deal. It was just an intrusive thought. Nothing else.

"Nothing else." he watched you murmur to yourself, your forehead resting on your arm and you were unaware of his presence. He was confused, he thought he did well by accepting the changes and the "normalcy" of everything. He felt his chest getting tighter and tighter throughout the afternoon when you never looked at him again, not even a glance. Did he do something wrong? Were you upset he brought the table by himself? He had to know, because the tightness in his heart wouldn't go away.   
Michael ran his fingers through your hair and mussed it up, hoping you would give him attention, with huffed up cheeks and a fake disappointed look. His hopes were precise and correct as you did what he envisioned you would do, he knows you too well. But you didn't meet his eyes, another tug to his chest. 

"What have I done?" he signed to you slowly. He stood and blocked your view to the television screen with his body so he would have your full attention. He waited for your response with clenched fists, a habit he developed a long time ago. It's something that he does when he's frustrated, he contained all of his anger in his balled fists whenever Loomis or one of the staff would pester him or worse. But you weren't Loomis or like them. He wasn't frustrated, never at you, but instead, he felt saddened guilt and confusion.

"What have I done?" he signed again, but quicker. He couldn't stand the weight of his chest any longer. 

"W-What? Michael, you didn't do anything." you protested, still not meeting his eye, you were shuffling on your seat, trying to look at the television. 

He was sick of it. He reached out his hand to grab your face as gently as he could through his storm of emotions. Somehow, his touch was light like he was holding something fragile, like a robin's egg. His fingers on your cheek and chin made your head tilt to meet his mask. You finally looked back at his gaze after what seemed like an eternity for the both of you. 

"I-I... It's my fault. I'm just- just being weird.". A nervous chuckle spilled from your lips.   
His head tilts to the side. That wasn't enough of an answer, it didn't answer his confusion at all. 'Worry' then immediately joined his plethora of emotions, worsening the situation for him.

His hands left your face to place themselves on your blanketed knees and bent down to meet your form, but that wasn't enough. He kneeled on the floor so his chest would touch your legs and feet, really making you feel him. His warmth and his touch.  
His train of thought had arrived to a conclusion. Maybe if he showed vulnerability like you always did without hesitation and fear, maybe you would trust him more. He was worried that you still didn't trust him even after what happened yesterday and today's events, he hurt you after all. The bruises on your neck had turned into a sickly yellow and green.

It's a wonder how this huge, dangerous man looked so small beneath you, so fragile and how he was allowing himself to be like this. He was offering his heart on a plate, bloody and raw. But so, so sweet. Your heated face reddened to a deeper shade. The intimate gesture and his breathes that fell quietly and ever so slightly wavering was all too much.  
You thought of words that you wanted to say, you wanted to say to him to get off his knees and stop, or joke about the weirdness of the situation or plainly say to him to get up. But the protests never came out, perhaps that was a good thing. 

"I just think... I just think that you're beautiful, Michael." you could feel a nervous laugh threatening to come out but you swallowed that down, it would make your proclamation sound mocking. 

His head snapped to look at you so fast it freaked you out a little. 

"You didn't do anything wrong, alright? I was just embarrassed I was thinking of you that way. Not because it's not true, you do have the prettiest eyes." You confessed to the silent man, you mentally commend yourself for not stuttering. 

He didn't know what to say. Him? Pretty? He didn't want to believe you but you sounded so, so sincere. He may not know what to say, but that's not important. What's important is that his storming emotions had died down. It gave him so much relief that he hadn't done anything that made you feel bad nor that had hurt you, that was good. But, he was now left with a much stronger feeling which he didn't quite know nor was very much familiar with. He wanted to be nearer to you, so much more. That's all he knew. 

It didn't take him too long to sit next to your side, his shoulder touching yours.

"I hope I didn't make things awkward." You glanced at him sideways, still a little overwhelmed of what just happened. The heat from his chest never leaving. 

"Why would it?" He made you look at his hands by inching closer, after noticing you weren't quite looking at him. He added. "It's not the truth."

You didn't have the energy to fight back, or rather, scared that you would feel awkward again but also, you feel like he would never believe of such things. He never really cared about himself. He just does things for himself that would be out of utmost necessity like eating, drinking and catching a few winks of sleep.

But at least someone could see and have the privilege to see him up so close and admire his features(without dying).

Michael had noticed you had fallen asleep when your body fell slack to his side and your breathing was more calm and slow. It was very late, 1:17 AM, to be precise. The couch was his place to sleep, not yours. So he took the liberty to bring you up to the room and plop you down again like a sack of potatoes. Your limbs were spread-out like a starfish and you didn't even rouse after the unceremonious drop on your comfy bed. He hadn't given up on the habit of staring at you while you slept, you never woke up once. He knows all your quirks when you slept, sometimes you would roll around a lot clearly experiencing a nightmare and he'd just curiously watch. Were you dreaming of him, or someone else? He thought to himself in those moments. But right now, you were sleeping peacefully and still, your chest rising and falling with same blanket from the living room. He grabbed fistsfuls of your covers and spread it not-so-evenly over your body, the upper part had covered your head, so he tugged the blanket down to your neck.

Sometimes he would position himself by the doorway or in a corner watching your sleeping form toss and turn and mumble about about something, but it wasn't one of those moments. He was seated on the edge of your bed, his hands on his thighs and his eyes on you. He hadn't done this before, sitting down on your bed. If he were to get close, he would just stand really close and loomed over you. He could now understand how much you liked being in bed and the reasons why you would wake up late sometimes, because the damn mattress was so comfortable. Not too soft like you were sinking into the mattress like quicksand but just comfy enough that would make someone fall asleep right away. 

He felt his eyes getting heavier and heavier and his posture drooping. He checked the bed's size if he could still squeeze in, unfortunately it wasn't a whole lot, but was enough. He could prop himself against the wall and let his boot-clad feet dangle on the edge. Maybe... Maybe if he'd just take a quick little nap on the foot of your bed, you wouldn't mind. Michael crossed his arms and shimmied up against the wall that was close to your bed.

You couldn't hold the smile anymore when you watched the whole thing unfold, as far as you know Michael and by the looks of his relaxed state, he had dozed off. So, you let yourself be happy by the company, since Michael was basically a human heater. There were two reasons you fell asleep on the couch, reason number one was basically he was warming you up just by leaning against him, like a huge teddy bear from those rigged carnival games. Two, you didn't want to move away from the man and wanted to use the moment just to be close to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'm not quite happy with this chapter but I hope you are happy with it regardless. I've been so busy with school and it's really taking a toll on my thinking ability. Thank you so much for your feedback from the last chapter, I enjoyed every comment that I've read. I'm blessed to have really nice people that read this fic. Thanks again!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo-wee, 10 chapters? That's pretty amazing, hah. Anyway, I'll stop apologizing when I update really late, because it would be really annoying. Please allow me to take my time with this fic because I'm actually pretty invested in it. But that wouldn't had happened without you guys. You are all so sweet and amazing!! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one.

Bleeding gums, splintered bones and tear-stained cheeks. The blonde kept running through the woods despite how much his twisted ankle pulsed with sharp pain with each desperate step. His lungs had burned and felt like needles poked him with each shuddering, fast breath. He craned his neck to face his assailant.

"GET AWAY, YOU FUCKING FREAK!! HELP!!" He yelled through his hoarse voice, his vocal chords straining uncomfortably like tight strings. 

Mouth full of grass and soil entered the man as he tripped on a large root of a tree. He sputtered and wheezed on the ground, desperately getting all of the grime and plant out of his mouth. He shortly felt the heavy weight of pain and fatigue settle on his beaten, broken body with each passing second. He hugged his own chest from the pain and curled more unto himself with each cough. 

A sudden, heavy boot stumped on his broken ankle. The bone twists and breaks with each turn from the other man's heel. He screamed and demanded the masked man to stop, through hoarse sobs and beatings from his skinny fists. Like it would deter the killer's intensitions. 

Birds flew and whatever land critter speedily ran upon hearing the final shrill from the damned man. Michael wiggled his kitchen knife from the man's torso, as it was lodged and was stuck between damaged organs and ribs. His breathing slowed to a steadier pace, calmed and feeling pleasant that this was over with. He could finally get what he wanted from him. Not just his life, but something else.

Michael was careful that the blonde wouldn't break the delicate item during the chase, and had purposely chased the man into the woods. The concrete would've shattered the item. He was a little alarmed and pissed off when he saw the man had tripped and landed on his thin, cloth bag. In which case, the dead man had earned the boot to the ankle. Perhaps it was a bit of a petty reaction from The Shape, but it was a very, very important thing. 

The other man's arms slumped and fell on the ground with a disgusting noise on the pooling blood, as Michael had retrieved or more appropriately, stolen the man's belongings. He stood there looming over the profusely bleeding man as his wet, red fingers rifled through the contents of the bag. His fingers paused as he found it, and proceeded to wipe away the blood on his own clothed thigh. He would hate to give a bad impression, although you would still wonder and demand how he would've gotten the thing. He couldn't just walk up to the shop, present the item for purchase, pay and walk away without getting screamed and shot at. 

It was a vinyl, very new and its cover sleek and shiny. Arrival, by ABBA. 

He had heard you humming 'Dancing Queen' while doing chores or taking times for yourself. Cooking, cleaning and even showering. He sometimes found himself humming or tapping his foot along with the lyrics, some parts of it having memorized due to repetition, as it was admittedly, a very catchy song. Although he would stop himself if you were in the same room or chasing a victim. That would ruin his reputation for being a stone-cold killer.   
He tossed the blood-soaked cloth bag on the boy's back and trudged away from the scene. 

'Dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.' He hummed, his voice gruff and strange due to the inordinate use. Birds and deer seemed to follow him from far away, curious and mystified of his humming. 

"Victor's been, uh, gone for days." You hear Eliza quip from her booth, which was across from you. You kept on the straight face and faced her, your office chair rolling towards her slightly. 

"Do you think, you know..." 

"Oh? Hmm. Uh- I don't know how to feel about that. But- It is certainly possible."

You force yourself to look distraught, but not too comical or sarcastic. "N-No. I'd rather not think about that. I'm sure he's fine."

Eliza flipped through what seemed to be a list of missing people. She couldn't find his name written down among the numbers.

"Well, he's got no family. They left the house to him, I've heard. Explains no one had reported his disappearance." She added the man to the list, a little nervous and indecisive.

Before you could say anything else to your coworker, your ears caught the telltale noises from your boss, heavy steps, wheezing laughs and all. But he sounded to be accompanied by someone, as he rambled on what sounded like heavy accusations. 

"I knew this fucker was sketchy. They're just right there." you hear him sputter out through his asthmatic voice.

You stood up too fast from your office chair, almost toppling it down but was caught by the wooden desk in front of it. Your eyes immediately caught a man, maybe in his 40s, his hair peppered with light streaks and his form professional but exudes threat. A ray of sunlight from the window near Eliza's cubicle had made his badge glint. It was the town's sheriff.

"I'll have to ask you some questions concerning some things, Mx. [L/N]." He said plainly, but obviously hiding some sort of suspicion on you.

"E-Excuse me?" you stammered out. A bead of sweat rolled down your back. 

"Don't worry about your work, I've got your boss' permission to borrow you for a few hours." He pointed with his stubby thumb at your short boss. His hands were clammy and he sported a sick grin.

You could read his mind, he is a very predictable man. He'd force your coworkers to write falsified information about you. Write outlandish and exaggerated stories and headlines about you working and keeping the infamous serial killer in the house. You could feel your nails dig in the flesh of your palm, you knuckles turning whiter and whiter from how much you were trying to keep calm.

You weren't nervous, no, you were angry. But you couldn't show that, of course. Lest, they really would find out. Instead, you gave both men a toothy smile and had leaned in, hands on your back, showing and expressing false innocence and vulnerability.

"Of course. I'd be happy and honored to help out the mourning, sir."

The metal had dug uncomfortably on your paling wrists, making you feel irritated. The annoying tics from the mounted clock wasn't helping either. Your head leaned down to your hands, and scratched at an itchy spot on your scalp. As far as you know, they were trying to break you. You haven't eaten nor had a sip of water since you were driven down this shithole of a sheriff's office. You were immediately given suspicious and menacing looks from other workers of the establishment when you first walked in with cuffed hands. Your neutral expression stayed throughout the whole ride and the walk to the interrogation room. 

You've been sitting in this cold, dusty room for maybe five and a half hours now. The same officer who had cuffed you since at work, in your own cubicle, had left the room for some 'water'. He was obviously looking and studying your behavior through the glass. Sensing the feeling of being watched had obviously grew on you and had festered like an annoying, invasive weed. But you supposed it was a little helpful. You have developed a third sense because of Michael, if you will.

You took the moment to recollect, your cheek lazily resting on your clenched fist. He had asked you about the scar on your palm, and you answered plainly that you accidentally harmed yourself in a cooking accident.

"How in the hell did that happened?" he asked from his seat. His elbows on the table and all eyes on you. Watching and observing.

"You see sir, I was trying to grab the knife but I was preoccupied with a call from my friends in the city. I had grabbed the knife on its edge." You let out a sigh of disappointment. Akin to someone cursing themself for their clumsy behavior.

"Yes, we do have a record of a call to your house from the city." He leaned back to his seat.

"But we also received a report from a caller hearing screaming from your residence." He caught your eyes and stared you down, trying his mightiest to unnerve you. 

You looked back at his eyes, unafraid and unrelenting. But not too angry nor aggressive, as it would make you suspicious. "Sir, the wound was gruesome to look at. I can't stand looking at the sight of blood, so I was more than horrified to see my own hand being cut up horribly."

"The same individual had reported hearing wood breaking and plates crashing." His gaze never left your eyes. But you looked on. 

"Sir, if I could slice up my own hand by my own clumsiness, dropped plates wouldn't be strange." You sighed again. But less more of disappointment, but more of annoyance. Also simulating the annoyance of losing fine china. 

"What about the sound of breaking wood?" 

"Ah, that would be of a weak leg from an old table. The table was there before I came to the house, sir. The Myers family owned the table, as far as I know." You countered.

His gaze fell, and that's when you cut him off before he could ask you more questions. You slightly leaned towards the man. 

"Sir, why am I here? I'm just a new resident of Haddonfield that moved here a month ago from the city, and moved to the Myers' house because it was very, very cheap." 

He didn't reply. So, you continued.

"Ever since I've arrived town, people have been telling me that I would die because of my decision. It's exhausting, and now I'm here." You motioned through cuffed hands at the musty, cold room. "In an interrogation room."

That's when he stood up to get some 'water'. Your hands fell on the table with a loud, metallic clank. You just wanted to go home. 

Michael had seen everything from far away, your compliancy on getting pushed into the sheriff's car with cuffed hands and a neutral, but uncomfortable expression. He let his legs feel heavy and basically be planted on the grass, as the desire to walk towards the scene and snatch you away was very, very strong. But that was out of the question, of course. His heart had felt heavy with dread, and got heavier as he watched the car drove away from your work place. 

His anger was white-hot, and he couldn't see anything but red. Good thing he had left the record back on your place or else he would've snapped the thing into two just to let out his anger. Instead, his hands reached through his overalls for his knife with the tightest grip and walked. His steps were thundering and fast and angry, but also in very, deep dread. His obsession, no- Not his obsession, but his friend and only friend, the person who had made him feel the most warm emotions that would make his head spin, brought color to his dull and gray life and had made him feel very, very safe, was on their way to prison for his actions. His steps quicken as each thought of you crossed his mind. No matter what happens, he'll get you out. Even if it would mortally wound him.

"Oh, hey." You looked up at the towering man, as you massaged your still-painful wrists. The metal had marked your flesh with its indents. "You shouldn't be here, it's dangerous." You looked around as discreet as possible, wary of cops and onlookers. You pretended to look into the woods and admired the scenery, past Michael. You also pretended to reach in your pockets for a snack, but then you stopped your act. 

Michael was violently shaking, his breathes had suddenly risen to a fast pace and he had dropped the clutched knife, the pale knuckles turning into bright red as all the blood and circulation rushed back up to his left hand. This made you gasp quite loudly, and pushed him into the bushes. He didn't catch himself by dropping on his elbows or anything. He even hit the back of his head on the foliage and flowers, the plants cushioned his fall but not the rest of his body. He had earned some scrapes on his hands by the fall.

"Oh, fuck- I'm sorry! I- Shit. Are you okay? Hey!" you whispered sharply, and your brows furrowed. Worry was painted all over your face. Your hands met his, to inspect the cuts and scrapes and possible splinters. A shaky, relieved sigh slip past your lips upon seeing none other than very small scrapes. After all, his hands were calloused, almost like armor at this point.

"Michael, Michael-" You hesitated for a moment, as you never had touched him like this before and so close to his face, but you threw caution to the wind, as he wouldn't stop shaking and hyperventilating. You propped your legs to his sides and kneeled. Whatever happens, happens.

Your hands gripped the sides of his mask and you looked at his eyes, his single blue was glossed over. "Michael, I'm okay. I'm here. They're never going to fucking get me." You place your forehead to his, the locks of the false hair had stuck on your sweaty temple but you didn't swipe them away. You kept your hands on the sides of his mask, feeling the bone structure of his face and faintly, the softness of his cheeks.

"Because of me." You caught him sign down to his chest. You feel your heart tighten by that.

"No! Michael, it's not your fault. You protected me! I would've-" you paused before saying the word "died", afraid that would make him more upset.

"I would've been really hurt without you." You said, almost too loud. You looked around and the back to see if anyone was watching, as if blessed by Lady Luck, there were no people. You turned your attention back to him.

"Michael, I promised I would never leave you, right?" you whispered, slow and calming.  
He didn't nod or react, but his shaking and hyperventilating had slowed down to a great amount.

"Come on, let's go home. It's getting real late." You pinched your sleeve up enough to see your watch, and had muttered something along the lines about the time and dinner. Your legs stutter as you tried to stand up, your knees had felt a little weak but you managed. Though, you were forcibly brought back to the ground. 

You groaned out an "oof" as your chest met Michael's by the slightly painful impact. His long arms were around your chest and basically, you were locked in. You weren't kneeling this time though, as you had landed on his thighs and was forcibly to sit upon them. He tried to get his legs around you, really trying to keep you close to his warm body, but he couldn't. He settled (begrudgingly) just by crossing them together. Which had given you more room to sit on.

You didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or feel silly by the whole situation, the situation being where a large man, the Boogeyman of Haddonfield, was hugging you so tight and close like a scared child clutching his favorite stuffed animal during a storm. You settled with feeling neither, and allowed yourself to be held so close and so sweet. You even stroked the fake hair of his mask, raking them back to place as it had become so mussed up. Michael leaned into the touch anyway.  
As sweet as the moment was, you couldn't stop thinking and admiring his pecs under his overalls, and also couldn't help but squeeze your cheeks on the muscles. What can you say, tiddies are pretty great.

You weren't stupid. Once you get home, a block or maybe two, eyes will be all on you. Near or far. Not just from the authorities, but also from the people who have seen you getting in the sheriff's car with your hands bound by cuffs.  
Some cars were parked so obviously, which made you blatantly laugh at their genuine thoughts of being so well-hidden. You weren't a cop,(god forbid), but you've learned and know the shady shit that they do, making you well-versed on avoidance and being careful around the bastards. Having to be raised in the city where crime is a little more rampant, you've seen the abuse of power and have seen firsthand police being bribed by mere dollars to throw innocents in cells for the rest of their lives by crimes that they didn't do.

You casually walked up through your porch, unlocked the front door and walked in as calmly as you could. Which you were completely are. They're not going to break you. Not ever. 

Like a pile of bricks, you felt all of the shady and nasty shit you've been through the whole day drop down on your tired and fatigued body. You let yourself fall gracefully as you can be on the couch, and by that, you threw yourself on the furniture and had wrapped yourself with Michael's quilt blanket. It smelled like you, since the both of you use the same shampoo and soap, but it was still Michael's or well, it was yours but he took the liberty to rummage through your cabinets and closets, and had found this nice and warm blanket for his to keep. You didn't mind it at all, maybe because it seemed to sap all of the negativity out of your bones. But also, maybe because it was his.

Michael couldn't step in the house, not yet anyway. He watched on from the sidelines, with curled fists, disgruntled. The place was crawling with pests and rats which he could eradicate in a matter of, maybe an hour or less. But again, that would make the suspicion on you rise like the tides. So, he had to wait. In the cold. In the dark. Feeling like pure shit and really furious. 

It was past two AM, and the killer could finally sneak in after watching and making sure the cars and the people would be all gone from the area. To say he was tired, would be an understatement. He went through a rollercoaster of emotions in one day. A total shock and distress for a man who's lived his whole life hollow and lifeless. Poked and prodded and insulted by pathetic people that call themselves caregivers.   
In similar fashion to yours, he let himself fall on the couch.

The 'pillows' had unexpectedly squeak and thrashed under his weight, prompting him to lunge out of the couch and armed himself fast with his heavy knife.

You removed the quilt blanket of your body and greeted the masked man in sign, which he was slightly confused of, but he greeted back anyway. He couldn't pinpoint he was feeling to see you sitting there groggy, clothes crumpled up and hair as disheveled as a bird's nest. The closest thing he could compare of what he was feeling is like candlewax melting and pooling into a puddle. He disregarded the feeling, finding it a bit too strange. 

"I can't talk to you out loud. They might've snuck in something that could hear us." You sign, still slow but faster compared weeks ago. Michael liked it a lot when you signed to him. 

He didn't sign back to say anything, his attention was all on the walls and cabinets where they potentially had hidden recorders. But that train of thought was suddenly thrown out of the window when he remembered something.

Michael bent over next to the couch and reached out on of his hands to fish out for something. As his fingers felt the glossed paper, he immediately grabbed it. 

"I got you this." He signed after handing you the slightly dusty vinyl. You tug on your jacket sleeve to your palm to wipe away the lint and dust. 

"Holy shit, you didn't have to." Your hands trembled while signing to the man. Then, like a flick of a switch, your eyes narrowed. 

"Did you steal this?"

He shrugged, plain and simple. 'Duh.' the action had hinted. Wasn't it obvious? How else would he have gotten it?

You couldn't hold the chuckle welling deep in your chest. Well, shit. Of course, he did. 

You carefully removed the plastic sleeve and placed the cover on the coffee table, you looked so excited and eager to listen to the record, it made Michael feel less like shit.   
Gentle fingers placed the needle on the tape, and;

A flurry of piano keys and the burst of poppy beats filled the living room. Your smile widened and had turned into a toothy one as you heard Cher's voice sing. Feeling the groove all over, your body and arms swayed with the song.

"You can dance, you can jive!"

You faced Michael with the same happy expression, but he could see the hidden intentions underneath your innocent smile. He dug the heels of his shoes on the floor to really plant himself on the couch.

"No." he promptly signed.

"Michael, it's Cher!" you excitedly sign back, still dancing with the song's poppy rhythm. "Come on, I'm feeling left out!" 

He had never danced before, nor he had the want to. It was a silly thing to do. Though, watching you joyously dance to the beat(as silly as you looked)had made him feel pleasant. He taps his foot to the rhythm. 

Your arms had caught him by surprise as you lift him off the seat, feeling hot in embarrassment and surprised anger. Though, those would soon fade away as fast as they crossed his mind. Your hands interlocked with his and your feet shuffled from front to back, and hips swayed. He still didn't move. You felt like you were dancing with a mannequin instead with another person. It was a little awkward on your part, but he didn't mind watching you dance. 

As the song trailed off, the vinyl played a different song. It was slow and the complete opposite of Dancing Queen. You knew this one, it was 'My Love, My Life'. His hands on your hands had suddenly felt heavier. Not gripping but resting. Your face heated up and reddened like a very ripe tomato. 

"Like an image passing by. My love, my life. In the mirror of your eyes. My love, my life."

Michael was listening to the music and to the woman's woes, still as a corpse but attentive. Your palms had begun to sweat from all the closure. Your heat and his had envoloped the both of you. 

"Oh, this has been my longest day. Sitting here close to you. Knowing that maybe tonight we're through."

That was enough, you couldn't handle the overwhelming embarrassment. You pull back your hands away, perhaps too strong and harsh, and had wiped the sweaty palms on your shirt.

"That's enough of that song." You chuckled after signing. He could see the slight tremble that you were desperately trying to mask. "Also, it's very late. I'm off to bed." You added, and lifted the needle of the record to retrieve the vinyl and put it back inside its sleeve.

Your chest met his when you turned around to go up the stairs and retire for the night. He was still as ever, but that worried you. You were afraid that you pushed his boundaries too far and had made him uncomfortable. You put your hands to your chest to sign, but he cut you off. He had already started signing. 

"I don't understand what I am feeling. But, I really want to say something. I may not understand it fully but-" His fingers, have become so graceful as ever since he picked up ASL. You watched them move with starry eyes. His scrapes from the fall earlier had already begun to scab. Old and new scars riddled his skin, but you thought of them to be beautiful. Like webs of long cracks of a broken porcelain vase.

From your insistent staring, you almost didn't catch what he was saying. But you caught them, and had prompted your heart feeling so full. So, so full. 

"I always want to be with you, I long to be with you. You are my home." Michael dropped his arms to his sides after that and had tilted his head, awaiting for your answer.  
But what could you say? That was... Very, very intimate. But of course, it was all in a friendly manner. Right? 

~~Denial~~.

"Thank you, Michael. I feel the same." You signed, in your own slow fashion. But slower, due to the overwhelming tugging in your chest.

'Am I going to have a heart attack, what the fuck.' you thought to yourself when you clutched your chest, just outside your room. Your ears caught the sound of the rickety stairs squeak under heavy boots, you watched the man climb up, your hand still clutching your chest.

"You're going to sleep in the guest room tonight?" you said with words this time, quietly. You could try to find the recorders in the morning and destroy them. He walked past you, not bothering to answer your question and twised your room's doorknob and helped himself in. 

"O-Oh." you could only mutter. 

You stretched your weary body with satisfying pops and cracks before kneeling down on the bedding and collapsing. You closed your eyes when you settled yourself comfortably on the bed with your blanket. 

However, minutes pass by and you still couldn't sleep. The man's presence was very heavy in the room, which didn't help at all, because you really wanted to sleep.

You turned away from the wall that you were facing to look at the masked man. He was seated on a wooden chair, just staring at you. Kind of creepy, but it's Michael.

"Hey... What're you doing?" you whispered in the quiet room. The only noise could be heard was his breathing and yours, and the strong autumn wind balding the trees of their leaves.

"Aren't you cold?" The comment slipped past your lips. You didn't mean to sound like you were inviting to let the man sleep on the same bed with you, even though he had done so days ago, but you had sounded like you wanted to be with him. Your voice was heavy in weariness and the want for comfort. Comfort, from someone else.

Michael felt his head tilt to the side, he had rather found you to be like a tiny baby bird on its nest, patiently waiting for their parent. Well, if that's what you want, then you'll have it.

He stood up from the seat and walked to your bedside in long strides, but he didn't touch the bed, not yet. 

"Am I allowed?" He signed.

Maybe it was because of how late it was and how tired you were, you didn't feel as embarrassed as you were before. You only nodded and scooted away until the wall hit your back, so he could have enough space to sleep on.

Rigidly, he swung his legs over and laid down on the comfortable mattress. His arms were on his sides and his body was straight as an arrow. He looked like he was a man in a coffin. You laughed at his positioning. He liked it when you laughed, but felt a little offended that you had found this to be funny.

"I'm sorry. Just relax, Michael." you murmured, your head on a soft pillow. You couldn't really see him because the pillow's edges had blocked the view to his mask. But you could see his body changing positions.

Firstly, he rolled his body to face yours and placed his arms close to your chest, not touching but still very close. You could feel his heat from his chest and arms. Then lastly, he had hooked a leg over yours and scooted closer. His thighs and knees touching yours. He was heavy, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You felt like you were being hugged by a weighted stuffy.   
Needless to say, this was a bit of a strange situtation but you liked it.

You like his warmth. His soft touches and brushes when you both shuffle around the house, still groggy and sleepy. His unending desire to learn things from the books he had read, over and over. Even, his malicious behavior of hiding your stuff, scaring you with loud noises and by appearing out of nowhere all out of good fun. You liked him.

The edges of the pillow was raised down with a press of his right hand, he wanted to see your sleeping face up so close. He was surprised to see you still awake, although looking terribly tired. Your eyes were half-lidded and the bags under your eyes looked worse. He couldn't sign being this close, so he settled with just being silent. 

"Michael..." He likes it when you say his name. 

"You are also my home." You reached out to cup the cheek of his mask, but again, you still feel the faint traces of his jaw and cheek. You could hear a little sliver of sense in your mind screaming for you to stop. But the little thought was crushed to bits soon after. 

He mimics your action by placing his hand over your cheek, but he had brought your foreheads together gently. Your eyes met. 

"Welcome home." A gruff and muffled whisper filled the room, as it also filled your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unable to perceive the shape of you, I find you all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with your love. It humbles my heart, for you are everywhere.
> 
> \- Hakim Sanai


End file.
